


Turn into light if I burn alive

by givebackmylifecas



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Berlin does not, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Nairobi lives, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24380950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givebackmylifecas/pseuds/givebackmylifecas
Summary: He banters with the gang, pisses Sergio off on purpose, and aggressively flirts with Helsinki, all in attempt to forget what it was like when he was watching Andrés walk away from him.He’s not surprised when Helsinki knocks on his door. He basically offered him a blowjob in front of everyone after all. He is surprised that it took him two weeks to do it.Post season 3/4 fix-it for Helsinki/Palermo
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 74
Kudos: 161





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so fresh off writing some Berlermo fluff I wrote this. Despite the tags, I promise that this has a happy ending, Martín apologises for being an asshole and Helsinki is a cinnamon roll whom no one deserves, but should be happy with Martín anyway.
> 
> TWs for referenced self-harm and past suicide attempts, some minor canon-typical violence, homophobic language, and Martín being a dick.
> 
> Fic title from the Julien Baker song "Televangelist"

Martín likes to think there was a time when he was a better person. He blames a lot of how he is now on Andrés leaving him, on Andrés dying, but if he thinks about it, he was the same before – he’s just amplified now.

He slept around a lot before, Andrés would laugh and call him a slut when he did the walk of shame the next day and Sergio would look embarrassed and avoid eye-contact. He drank a lot too, usually more when he had to put up with Andrés' wives for any length of time, but he’s always overindulged. He’d always been selfish, always wanted what he couldn’t have, always been jealous, that jealousy making him cruel.

If he wanted to get psycho-analytical, he would say that he’s a bad person because his mother didn’t love him. He’s sure she must have, at some point, but she also stopped. She stopped loving him when she caught him in bed with the boy who delivered the papers.

It’s not him being dramatic, he’s not accusing her of anything that isn’t true. She told him. She’d cried and cried and cried, clutching her rosary and when Martín had tried to comfort her, she’d slapped him and screamed at him for breaking her heart.

He remembers how she’d looked at him to this day. Her usually perfect curls were in disarray and her face was red and blotchy. And she’d looked at him with eyes so full of disgust they were unrecognisable and said: “Get out of my house. I can’t have a faggot living under my roof.”

And when he’d said “Mama, please, I love you. Don’t you love me anymore?” she’d thrown a glass at his head and said: “how can anyone love a freak?”

He has a lot of things he can blame his behaviour on, but he’s starting to realise that maybe there isn’t an excuse.

It doesn’t happen quickly, not at all. At the monastery he’s still himself, or the self he’s trying to be. He laughs a lot, he drinks a lot, he makes bawdy jokes.

It’s unfair really, that Sergio expects him to be as enthusiastic about the plan as he was with Andrés. That he expects him to be able to function when he’s back in the exact place where Andrés broke his heart.

“I offered to melt gold with you.” That was the last thing he ever said to Andrés and here Martín is, planning to do just that, but Andrés is dead and Martín doesn’t even care all that much about the gold anymore.

It’s easier when Sergio isn’t around. The others don’t know him, don’t know what he was like before – before Andrés, before the weddings, before the two years he spent trying to kill himself without actively attempting it.

He banters with the gang, pisses Sergio off on purpose, and aggressively flirts with Helsinki, all in attempt to forget what it was like when he was here watching Andrés walk away from him.

He’s not surprised when Helsinki knocks on his door. He basically offered him a blowjob in front of everyone after all. He is surprised that it took him two weeks to do it.

“Helsinki,” he says stepping aside to let the other man in.

Helsinki smiles and glances around his room. “How come you have so much stuff?”

Martín doesn’t think of the years he spent here with Andrés, collecting ridiculous trinkets that he thought meant something. He’d left them all behind when he left, and he didn’t enjoy seeing them all again now.

He doesn’t answer Helsinki’s question, just shrugging and heading for the whiskey he’d opened a lot earlier in the day than Sergio probably wanted.

“Do you want some?” he asks and when Helsinki nods, Martín pours him a glass.

It’s probably too much, for a casual drink. Andrés had been a sophisticated drinker, only consuming the best, always measuring the alcohol out precisely. Lately Martín has just been drinking whatever he can get, as much as it takes to forget so he can sleep.

Helsinki smiles at him over the rim of his glass and for a moment, Martín debates just sending him away then and there. But he’s always been selfish and when they’ve both finished their drinks and Martín is bored of the small talk, he gets to his feet and strips off his shirt.

“So, are we doing this?” he asks, preening a little at the appreciative look Helsinki gives him.

Helsinki nods. “You’re not too drunk?”

“Please,” Martín says, stepping forward to get his hands on the hem of Helsinki’s shirt. “I can do this even when I can’t stand up.”

Maybe that’s not as reassuring as he means it to sound, because Helsinki frowns, but Martín just tugs on his shirt, urging Helsinki to take it off, which thoroughly distracts him.

It’s been a while since he’s done this, he hasn’t exactly been at his best the last couple years, but Helsinki is gentle when he pushes in. It’s almost like he’s being careful not to leave any marks with his huge hands as he grips Martín’s hips and starts to move and Martín wonders if it’s because he’s been told before that he’s too rough.

Martín however, has long ago lost any sense of self-preservation that lets him enjoy the gentle sex Helsinki is clearly going for. In fact, if he doesn’t still hurt tomorrow morning he’ll count this as a wasted opportunity. It’s probably better not to tell Helsinki this. After all, he’s not one of the men Martín picks up in bars, whom he lets smack him around a bit during and then never sees again after.

Instead, he just tightens his legs around Helsinki’s waist and moves into the thrusts. “Harder,” he orders and to his credit, Helsinki does start moving faster, less carefully. It’s not quite the hard and rough pace Martín wants, but it’s enough to make him see stars a couple of times and when he comes before Helsinki does, he just urges him to continue despite the sensitivity.

He does feel a little bad when he kicks Helsinki out so soon after – he’s not completely heartless. But he means what he said, he can’t go into this with emotional baggage – any more than he already has – and he doesn’t need Helsinki doing that either, although a part of him suspects that it might be too late.

When Helsinki hugs him, Martín’s whole body seizes up as if rejecting it, but even he can’t bring himself to push Helsinki away so callously.

When Helsinki leaves, Martín pours himself some more whiskey and tries not to think about how it had felt to have Andrés lips against his.

Nairobi hates him. He can tell by the way she watches him around Helsinki that she doesn’t think he’s good enough for her friend. She’s probably right and he wonders if she’s told Helsinki that. He wouldn’t put it past her, she’s very outspoken.

Maybe things would have turned out differently for him if he’d had a friend like that when he first met Andrés. Someone to tell him to stay away, to avoid falling in that trap. He thinks that even if he had, he wouldn’t have listened. He’d wanted Andrés from the start.

Martín hates Helsinki. Hates how worried he was when Martín’s eyes were full of glass. Hates how gently he touches him when he puts the eyepatch on, patting his leg, his chest, as if that will make up for the fact that Martín can only see out of one eye and even then poorly.

He hates how Helsinki just stands there as Martín and Nairobi tear strips out of each other, even when Martín turns on him. He hates how he looks at him with pity when Nairobi just goes and spills Martín’s biggest shame into the room, right there in front of Helsinki and Denver. As if Martín didn’t already know that he was empty, like a fucking doll that had been dropped the minute it became uninteresting to its owner.

He hates how Helsinki won’t just let him blow himself up, or leave the bank to get fucking shot. Tokyo would have, if it didn’t put her and the rest of them at risk. He hates how his whole body sags into Helsinki’s embrace when he puts his arms round him, ready to blow both of them up to stop Martín from leaving.

Martín doesn’t hate Helsinki. He has a lot of regrets in his life, but convincing Gandia to escape is one of them. He regrets that Tokyo was abducted. He regrets that Nairobi had her head shoved through a door. He regrets that Denver and Rio were nearly blown up.

Most of all he regrets that Helsinki nearly died because of him.

When Nairobi is safely back in the forge with Bogota, when Gandia has been tied up, gagged and chained to the railing with both Stockholm and Denver watching him, Martín goes to look for Helsinki.

He finds him in the rubble of one of the offices, sitting with his back against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, looking smaller than he reasonably should.

Martín picks his way across the room and carefully sits down next to him. When he turns his head, he can see the rope burn on Helsinki’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t calculate the pain it’d cause you.”

Helsinki doesn’t even look at him when he speaks. “What do you know of pain, Palermo?”

Martín’s almost proud. It’s the meanest thing he’s ever heard Helsinki say. He knows he deserves it, even though a part of him still wants to lash out, to speak of every single way the world had ever wronged him.

“Pain is a loan,” he says instead. “It leaves you with a debt you can never pay back.”

“I can take pain. A lot of pain,” Helsinki says and Martín wonders for the first time about the person Helsinki was before all of this.

“What about the pain you’re feeling now?” he asks. “You almost lost your best friend twice. You almost lost your life.”

Helsinki shakes his head and Martín can see the tears in his eyes, can see himself in Helsinki’s pain. He tries to tell him so, his words clumsily attempting to patch up wounds that he had inflicted and wounds that he doesn’t even understand.

“Get out of there now,” he warns, his hands balling into fists as he thinks of the amount of times he drank himself into a stupor, only to wake up with a pistol in his hand, or dried blood on his wrists. “Otherwise you risk becoming a piece of shit like me. This horrible monster I’ve turned into. A guy who destroys everything he touches. Someone who’s wanted to die for many years. And you can’t get out of there. You never get out.” He doesn’t say it for sympathy, he doesn’t say it for pity. For the first time in years, he actually finds himself caring about someone that isn’t him. He doesn’t know how Helsinki did it, but he well and truly fucked up Martín’s protective shell and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to put it back together again.

“Look, all that ‘boom, boom, ciao’ crap… I treated you like shit. I didn’t dare. I couldn’t. I didn’t know how,” he admits and he thinks it might be the most honest thing he’s said in years. He’s crying and he fucking hates himself for it, for allowing himself to have been broken down like this, but he doesn’t think he can stop.

“But let me say, I’m by your side. I won’t let you fall,” Martín says and it’s as much a declaration of love as offering to melt gold with Andrés ever was. Because Nairobi was right, he’s never had the balls to tell people he loved them, too afraid of rejection, too afraid that they’ll be the same as his mother and kick him out of their lives.

But Helsinki nods and says: “I know,” and Martín wonders if he really does know. “I’ve known from the start,” Helsinki says. “I know who you are.”

Martín holds out his hand, like he’d done to Andrés in a bar in Rio de Janeiro fifteen years ago. “My name is Martín Berrote.” Helsinki takes it, his hand unreasonably large in comparison to Martín’s. “I was born in Buenos Aires, but I live in Palermo, Sicily. I’m going to get you out of here, even if I have to die doing it,” he promises.

“My name is Mirko Dragic,” Helsinki says as he presses their hands together. “I’m from Belgrade.”

Martín feels more tears roll down his face, as Helsinki tells him about his loss and promises that Martín won’t be another one.

Martín doesn’t know why. All he knows is that Helsinki is too kind, too good to have been mixed up in all this, to have gotten mixed up with him. But he also knows that he’s still selfish. No matter what Helsinki sees in him, that remains and despite what he told Nairobi, he does want things for himself, he wants Helsinki and his kindness.

So while Helsinki still holds his hand, Martín wraps a hand around Helsinki’s neck and pulls him into a kiss. It’s the first they’ve shared, despite the fact that they’d already fucked. It’s not Martín’s first kiss since Andrés – it’s not – but he kind of wishes it was as Helsinki cups his face, much more carefully than he deserves, like he’s something delicate, breakable.

He wants to tell him it doesn’t matter, that he’s already been broken and nothing Helsinki can do will make it worse, but Helsinki just deepens the kiss, one strong arm wrapping around Martín’s waist.

Martín makes a desperate noise that he immediately regrets, and Helsinki pulls him closer, moving him effortlessly until he’s practically on his lap.

When Martín finally pulls away, Helsinki looks just as shocked as he feels.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, closing his eyes against what he knows is about to come: Helsinki pushing him off and walking away.

It never happens. He opens his eyes when he feels Helsinki’s thumb gently tracing the healing cuts on his cheekbones. “Don’t be sorry,” Helsinki tells him. “Unless you’re expecting this to be a ‘boom boom ciao’ situation. Then you should be sorry.”

Martín’s lips twitch into an approximation of a smile. “I’m not.”

“Then it’s okay,” Helsinki says, with more calm acceptance than Martín has ever been able to show in his life.

“Are you sure?”

Helsinki nods and Martín kisses him again, a little sloppily and he’s fairly sure he’s started crying again, but Helsinki kisses back anyway, arms tightening around Martín.

Getting out of the bank is hell. Martín had heard stories about the escape from the mint. How they’d all just walked right out – all except Andrés who had stayed behind.

It’s kind of how he’d wanted to go too. It’s how he would have gone, if Helsinki hadn’t been as good as his word and dragged him right out with him.

Martín still got a bullet to the calf for his trouble and Nairobi glares at him as Helsinki half carries him onto the cargo plane that the Professor had acquired for their escape.

“Helsinki was almost killed because of you,” she spits as Denver starts to patch him up, after thankfully ascertaining that the bullet went right through his leg.

He doesn’t say anything, just focusses on not passing out from the pain.

“It’s okay, Nairobi,” Helsinki tells her as he strokes Martín’s hair with one huge hand.

She shakes her head. “No, it isn’t. You nearly died because Palermo’s an asshole who thought he could take down the army without being able to see properly! You should have just left him there!”

“Finally, we agree on something,” Martín says. “I must be a fucking cat with the amount of times I’ve tried to die and then stayed alive instead.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as even Nairobi looks taken aback. Helsinki just helps him sit up, eyes sad, but without a trace of pity.

“Denver?” Helsinki asks. “Can you give him a sedative?”

Denver nods and Martín scowls. “I don’t need it. Save it for someone who deserves it, since I clearly don’t.”

Denver looks between him and Helsinki indecisively.

“Ignore him,” Helsinki orders. “He needs pain relief. Even prisoners of war get that. Palermo is part of our team.”

Martín protests again, but Denver has already uncapped a syringe and stuck him with it. It works scarily fast and Martín falls asleep on the floor of the cargo plane, still propped up against Helsinki.

It’s two weeks since they made it out of the Bank of Spain and somehow, Martín has ended up with everyone yelling at him again. Well, Sergio isn’t and neither is Lisbon. Helsinki isn’t either, but he’s the one everyone should actually be yelling at.

Martín didn’t even do anything this time. Sergio had said it was time for them to split up, that it had been too much of a risk already, them being together this long. So everyone had started pairing up and Martín had already resigned himself to going alone, but then out of nowhere Helsinki had announced that Martín was coming with him.

“Have you gone completely mad?” Tokyo is currently asking as Denver just stares with his mouth open.

Martín has decided that if he can’t leave – which was the first thing he tried – he might as well drink so he’s currently pouring himself his fourth glass of wine.

“I’m fine, Tokyo,” Helsinki insists.

Martín swears when he manages to spill some of the wine, unintentionally drawing Tokyo’s attention.

“Look at him,” she says. “He’s a mess. He’s a barely functional alcoholic.”

Martín toasts her sarcastically and she gives him the finger. “She’s right you know, Mirko. I do drink a lot.”

“Mirko?” Bogota repeats as Nairobi’s eyes widen.

“You told him your name?” she asks Helsinki, betrayal written all over her face. “It took you a year to tell me!”

“In his defence, we did fuck,” Martín says and Helsinki shoots him an annoyed look.

Tokyo laughs. “Oh, we’re all well aware of that,” she says. “Like we haven’t noticed him coming out of your room every morning.”

“Why does it matter?” Helsinki asks. “Besides, who else would I go with?”

Martín tries to ignore the little twinge of hurt in his chest at that. He never expected to be anyone’s first choice after all.

“With me!” Nairobi says incredulously.

“You’re going with Bogota!” Helsinki counters, but Martín has had enough of this.

He pushes himself away from the table, only swaying slightly. “As much as I’m enjoying this, I can’t be bothered to listen to you all squawk anymore, so I’m going to say a couple things. One, Helsinki is a grown man and is capable of making his own decisions. Two, I know you all think I blackmailed him into this or something, but this is actually the first time I’m hearing of it as well. Three, well, I’m not actually the devil so Helsi: if this is because you feel sorry for me, or you’re worried I’m going to top myself, or because I’m your last resort and you think you have no one else to pair up with, then no offense but I don’t really want you to come with me. To be honest, I think you’d probably be better off if you didn’t.”

He slams his glass a little too hard onto the table, causing most of the wine spill, but he just wipes his hand on his trousers and leaves.

Everyone else immediately starts talking again, but he doesn’t stick around to hear what they have to say. Instead, he walks out of Sergio’s idyllic beach mansion and out onto the sand.

His leg still hurts and walking on the shifting ground is hard, so he doesn’t make it very far, just to the closest grove of palm trees. He lowers himself onto the spiky grass and presses his hands to his eyes.

He knows he brought it on himself, but it hurts all the same, to hear the way they think of him. As some monster that’s just out to hurt Helsinki for the sake of a regular fuck.

Maybe in the beginning it was just sex, but that was before the heist, before Helsinki saved his life. Before he started spending the night in Martín’s bed, one arm thrown across Martín’s chest so that when he wakes from his nightmares, he knows he isn’t alone.

Martín drags in long breaths, trying to stop himself from crying and failing miserably. He knows he’s a bad person, he knows that he doesn’t deserve Helsinki, knows that he never deserved Andrés either, probably never even deserved his mother for the few years he had her. Knowing all that doesn’t stop him from feeling like his heart is breaking all over again though.

He takes a moment to wish that he’d never made that stupid bear comment, never slept with Helsinki, never agreed to help Sergio in the first place. Maybe he’d finally have drank himself to death by now if he hadn’t.

He hears footsteps crunching on the sand and he turns to see who it is, but his eyesight still hasn’t recovered and he can’t make Sergio out until he’s right in front of him.

“Are you alright?” Sergio asks and Martín shrugs.

“Sure, I’m fine. Go back to your family, I’m sure they’re all missing their papa.”

Sergio doesn’t leave, instead he just sits down next to Martín. “I’m sorry, Martín,” he says and Martín turns to look at him in surprise. “I know none of this has been easy for you. First losing Andrés and then having to return to the monastery. I should have checked up on you, made sure you were doing okay.”

“It’s alright,” Martín says dismissively.

Sergio sighs. “They don’t hate you, you know. They’re just worried –“

“About Helsinki, yeah I get it. I was telling the truth, I didn’t know he wanted to come with me. I assumed he’d go with Nairobi.”

“But you know he loves you?” Sergio asks and Martín nods silently. “Do you love him?”

“I don’t know,” Martín says eventually. “I spent so long in love with Andrés – fuck, I’m still in love with him – and I let it consume me. But, it wasn’t healthy, it wasn’t right. So, I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like, or if that’s what this is. But I care about him, I know none of them believe it, but I do. He’s good to me and he makes me want to be good.”

Sergio nods. “Have you told him that?”

“What do you think?” Martín says with a humourless laugh.

“Maybe you should,” Sergio says seriously. “For what it’s worth, I think you two should leave together.”

“Thanks,” Martín says, a little more sincerely than he means to. He clears his throat. “Help me into the house? I can’t see shit in the dark.”

Sergio huffs a laugh and offers Martín his arm once they’re both on their feet again.

They part ways in the hallway, Sergio heading back to the dining room and Martín making a beeline for his room. He’s not in the mood to get yelled at again.

When he opens his door, the lights are already on and Helsinki is sitting in his bed.

“Oh,” Martín says, closing the door behind him. “I thought you would be with the others.”

Helsinki shakes his head. “The Professor and I both went to look for you. He picked the beach and I picked your room. I guess he was right.”

Martín offers a half smile. “Well, he has known me for ten years.”

He moves to the drawer where he keeps his pyjamas and starts getting ready for bed, ignoring Helsinki still sitting on his bed.

“I meant it, you know,” Helsinki says as Martín is pulling on his t-shirt. “I want to go with you.”

Martín shrugs, his back still turned to him. “I believe you. I also believe the others made some pretty compelling arguments for why you shouldn’t.”

He starts when he feels Helsinki’s hand on his shoulder, gently turning him to face him.

“They’re wrong,” Helsinki says and Martín sniffs, willing himself to not cry yet again. “Well, not about all of it. You are an asshole sometimes and you drink a lot. But I like you anyway.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Helsinki shrugs. “That’s not your decision to make, is it?” Martín shakes his head and Helsinki smiles. “I love you, Palermo. You don’t have to say it back, but I do.”

Martín blinks, really wishing his eyes worked better so he could make sure there isn’t a trace of a joke on Helsinki’s face. “I wish you wouldn’t, you deserve better.”

“Maybe I do, but I’ve chosen you.”

Martín reaches for him, pulling Helsinki into a hug, and presses his head to Helsinki’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he says into the Serb’s shirt. “I’ll say it back one day. I promise I will.”

Helsinki strokes his back. “I know you will.”

Martín looks up and immediately finds himself pulled into a kiss. He lets Helsinki wrap himself around him, enjoying the warmth despite the tropical climate.

Helsinki walks them backwards until he reaches the bed. He collapses onto it, pulling Martín on top of him, taking his full weight as if it’s nothing.

“So, we’ll leave together?” he asks and Martín nods.

“Yes. Yes, let’s leave together. Who cares what the others think,” he says, turning his head so his face is buried in Helsinki’s neck.

Helsinki laughs and Martín can feel it in his own chest. “They’ll come around, don’t worry.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i meant to have this up earlier, there's more coming but how about this for now? Same TWs as before apply but I'll add referenced recreational drug use and disordered eating

Martín wakes with a start, heart racing, his lungs desperate for air. Beside him, Helsinki keeps sleeping, breaths deep and even.

Martín looks at him for a moment, just long enough to reassure himself that he’s there, hand sneaking out to touch, to verify just in case his shitty eyesight is lying to him. Then he crawls out of bed, heading through the dark apartment and to the balcony that overlooks the bay.

It’s just big enough for a couple of sun-loungers and the planters with herbs that Helsinki is desperately trying to keep alive despite the heat.

Martín lifts up the oregano in its garish yellow pot and pulls the carton of cigarettes from where he had stashed it in the stand underneath. Helsinki hadn’t exactly told him not to smoke, it’s more that he gets this look on his face when he catches him, like he’s disappointed Martín is ruining his health. It’s the same look he gives him whenever Martín drinks too much, or forgets to eat again, or won’t get out of bed for days on end. Most days he can resist, but right now he can still taste Andrés on his lips and his hands won’t stop shaking and he needs a fucking smoke.

Martín pulls two cigarettes and a lighter from the box, before putting it back under the oregano pot. He bites down on the menthol capsule before lighting one up, relaxing as the minty smoke fills his lungs.

He sits down on the end of one of the loungers, knees pulled up to his chest, one arm wrapped around his legs, curled up as small as he can make himself. He takes another drag of the cigarette, watching the smoke he can barely see with his fucked-up eyes float away and disperse above the city.

He likes Bangkok, and he’s glad Helsinki didn’t insist on going back to South-America. He knows that he and Nairobi had spent the time between the two heists in Argentina, knows that she had gone with to Brazil with Bogota, but the thought of going back to any of the places he had previously visited with Andrés had made him sick.

He doesn’t turn when he hears the glass door slide open behind him, he just flicks away the butt of his cigarette and crunches the menthol capsule on the next one. His hand shakes again as he tries to light up and when he loses the flame a third time, he finds the lighter and cigarette taken from him. Helsinki, just in his boxers, crouches in front of him, places the cigarette in his own mouth, lights it, and then hands it back.

Martín takes a grateful drag as Helsinki circles him, sitting behind him, legs bracketing Martín’s waist.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Helsinki asks and Martín shakes his head. “Nightmares?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes waking up is the nightmare.”

“You dreamt of Berlin again?”

Martín inhales more smoke, holding it in for as long as he can before he exhales. “Yes.” He doesn’t say he's sorry, but he knows Helsinki hears it anyway.

“Are you going to try and sleep again?”

“No. You should though.”

“Nah. It’s not long till sunrise now, might as well stay here.”

Martín exhales more smoke, scooting back along the lounger until he can lean back against Helsinki’s chest, head under his chin, the hand holding his cigarette propped on one of Helsinki’s knees.

Martín shivers when he presses a kiss to his neck. “Are you cold?”

He shrugs and Helsinki wraps an arm around him, one large hand settling on Martín’s stomach. Martín throws the cigarette, which has burned down to the filter, over the side of the balcony and curls further into Helsinki’s warmth.

“You’re not about to tell me that I’d never survive a Serbian winter again are you, querido?” Martín asks and he feels Helsinki laughing, more than he actually hears it. “You know it isn’t my fault that Buenos Aires - which has the best weather in the world - is what I'm accustomed to.”

“It’s too hot there.”

Martín snorts. “You’re wrong, cariño.”

“Agree to disagree, душо.”

Martín decidedly doesn’t flush at the foreign term of endearment. It’s embarrassing how he still finds himself caught off guard by Helsinki’s kindness, how gentle he is, how soft. He covers Helsinki’s hand with his own, fingers easily slipping in between the other man’s.

“Sorry I woke you.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” Helsinki says softly. “I wish you wouldn’t smoke. But I know it’s hard to quit.”

Martín turns in his arms so he can look up at him. “Helsi, is that why you always have lollipops?” Helsinki grins and Martín laughs. “And here’s me thinking we had no more secrets.”

He twists again, reaching up to press a kiss to Helsinki’s lips. Helsinki kisses back, hands soft against Martín’s back.

“What’s that face for?” Martín asks when he pulls away, settling back against Helsinki’s chest again.

Helsinki laughs. “Menthol? Really? You taste the way an old lady smells.”

Martín snorts in response. “How many old ladies have you been around, huh?”

“Okay, not many,” Helsinki admits and Martín laughs.

Across the bay, the sky is starting to lighten. Soon the sun will have fully risen and the streets will be full of people, but for now it’s quiet and still.

Martín strokes Helsinki’s thigh. “What do you want to do today?”

“I don’t mind. Do you want to go out? We could go to the market.”

Martín yawns. “We could do that.”

“Tired? Do you want to go to back to bed?”

“No, let’s just stay here.”

He hadn’t imagined he’d ever be this comfortable around someone who wasn’t… well, Andrés, but the past three months with Helsinki have proved otherwise. He turns onto his side, draping himself across Helsinki’s chest and closes his eyes. He smiles a little at the gentle hand rubbing up and down his side and yawns again. Unlike Andrés, Helsinki is never short of physical affection for him.

* * *

It hasn’t been a good day. Martín got high, forgot to eat, and then passed out in the shower, and now he’s woken up and Helsinki isn’t there. His head hurts and he can feel the cut on his forehead that Helsinki must have stitched together. Ten years ago, he would have complained about his face, but now? What’s another scar? It’s just one more to add to the collection.

The ones on his face that are a lasting reminder of Gandia still haven’t faded like Helsinki promised they would. The ones on his wrists and thighs… well, he prefers not to think about them – won’t let Helsinki touch them either. He’s not fond of the reminder that he looks like some sort of grotesque patchwork doll.

He stumbles out of the bedroom, still not completely sober. Night had fallen while he was asleep and all the lights are out.

He’s gotten pretty good at navigating their apartment without being able to see well, but in the half-dark he doesn’t see the boots that were kicked off beside the sofa. He trips over them, his reflexes not quick enough to stop himself from falling and he just about manages to get his hands under him before he hits the ground.

“Fuck,” he groans, trying to figure out whether it’s worth getting up again.

A shape appears at the end of the sofa. “Martín?” Helsinki asks.

“Who else would it fucking be?” he snaps, regretting it as soon as the words leave his mouth. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Helsinki lies back on the sofa, his body disappearing from Martín’s view. “It’s okay, Martín.”

He sounds so resigned and Martín’s chest aches because he knows he’s fucked up again and as always he doesn’t know how to make it better. Not for the first time he wonders whether he should have protested more against leaving with Helsinki – at least one of them would be happier that way.

“You didn’t need to sleep on the sofa,” he tries. “You could have taken the bed and put me out here… or you could have just left me in the bathroom. I’ve passed out in loads of bathrooms and I’ve always been fine.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, because Helsinki sits up again, leaning back against the arm of the sofa and Martín doesn’t need to see more than the hazy outline of his face to know he’s giving him that look that means Martín’s said something that made Helsinki sad.

He sits up on his knees, shuffling around so that he’s beside Helsinki. “I uh, I really am sorry. Here, let me make it up to you.” He climbs up onto the sofa, practically sitting on Helsinki’s shins. He reaches out, finding the waistband of Helsinki’s shorts, pulling them down. He’s only managed to pull them down a few inches when hands grip his wrists, stopping him.

“Martín, don’t,” Helsinki says quietly, fingers still firmly wrapped around Martín’s wrists.

Martín blinks. “I don’t understand… I thought you like it when I blow you?” His hands are shaking and he desperately hopes Helsinki can’t feel it.

“I do, but not like this. You’re not sober.”

“What about two weeks ago? We were both drunk then and you didn’t say no!” Martín protests.

“That was different! We both wanted it. You don’t want this, you’re just trying to… I don’t know. Say sorry? Do you even know what you’re sorry for?” Helsinki asks, his voice still deceptively calm as he finally lets go of Martín’s wrists.

Martín doesn’t know what to do. His head is spinning and he can’t breathe properly and he doesn’t know how to fix this. He swallows reflexively a few times, trying to come up with what Helsinki wants to hear. “I uh, yes. Of course I know. I’m sorry for snapping at you and uh for making you feel like you had to sleep out here, I know it isn’t good for your back. And I’m sorry you had to peel me off the floor again and stitch me up. I know you…” he trails off and takes a couple of shallow breaths. “I know you must be tired of doing that.” Helsinki doesn’t say anything so Martín just keeps talking. “It must be really um, really irritating for you and I… that’s why I wanted to make it up to you. Because I know all those things I do are really annoying so I want you to get something out of this too. I want you to feel good.” He means it, he really does. He doesn’t really understand what Helsinki gets from their relationship, when Martín takes so much time and effort for fairly little reward, but he’s never had any complaints about the sex from any of the men in his past.

His hands move, still shaky, back to Helsinki’s shorts. He rubs the palm of his hand against Helsinki’s crotch, only to immediately be pushed away again. “Sorry, sorry. Um, you could fuck me instead if you want?” he offers. He’s fairly sure he won’t be able to get it up because of the pills he took earlier but this isn’t about him. It’s something he’s been trying to learn over the past months with Helsinki – to step back and put other people’s needs before his own.

There’s a sniffing sound and he looks up to see Helsinki wiping his eyes. That’s not something he’s ever experienced after offering to let someone fuck him.

“No, Mirko, don’t cry,” he says, crawling further up the sofa. “I’m sorry, I just… I was just trying to apologise.” He takes Helsinki’s face in his hand, pressing a hesitant kiss to his forehead, wiping away fresh tears. “Don’t cry, I’m sorry. I, fuck, do you… do you want me to go? Is that it? You don’t want me anymore?”

Helsinki shakes his head and wraps his arms tightly around Martín. “No, срце, I don’t want you to go.”

Martín allows himself to be pulled down onto Helsinki’s chest, the other man pressing kisses to his hair. “I just… I didn’t want you to be angry and leave.”

“Oh, Martín, I was never angry. I was worried,” he says, hands rubbing soothing circles into Martín’s back. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Martín dismisses. “I was just trying to… even the playing field. You did so much, I just wanted to pay you back.”

Helsinki pauses in his stroking and Martín tenses, waiting to be pushed away, but the circles on his back quickly resume. “It’s not a transaction, љубљени, you don’t need to pay me back. Especially not with sex.”

Martín nods and hesitates before speaking, unsure whether to voice his reasoning. Helsinki hadn’t liked any of it so far, but he was also always telling Martín it was important to speak about feelings. “I know, but, I need you to understand that I don’t have anything else to give. This is all there is.”

He expects another talking to, where Helsinki says something so emotionally intelligent that Martín regrets ever looking at him and thinking him stupid. Instead, Helsinki kisses him, somehow furiously and softly at the same time.

When they break for air, Helsinki runs gentle fingers along his cheekbone. “I love you. And not just because of the sex. I’d love you even if we didn’t have sex.”

Martín fake shudders at the thought making Helsinki smile, but he understands the sentiment. How long had he loved Andrés with only the bare minimum of physical affection in return? “Well don’t say that, I do like it too.” He leans forward and kisses the smile off Helsinki’s face. When he rolls his hips automatically, getting a little too into it, Helsinki pulls away.

“Maybe just sleep, now?” he asks and Martín nods.

“Helsi?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we move to the bed? You really will fuck your back otherwise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked this little bit? sorry if everyone seemed horribly ooc but I will definitely be continuing and i promise it won't all be angsty and sad
> 
> Also according to google this is what the Serbian bits mean:  
> душо - honey  
> срце - heart  
> љубљени - beloved
> 
> some unsolicited advice? don't smoke menthols they're just as bad for you as all the other cigarettes. and certain drugs and hot showers don't mix, your circulatory system can't handle it and you can faint like martín did (or fall asleep which is also not great)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back and we attempted smut. (by we i mean me and my sincere apologies for how awful this is) No more TWs than usual... a little more fluff tho!

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Martín groans, holding Helsinki’s hand tightly.

Helsinki laughs, his face still flushed. “I can’t believe you’ve never done this before.”

“Why would I have? It’s weirder that you’ve done it so many times.”

“It’s fun!”

Martín looks over at Helsinki who looks completely at ease on the little stool the tattoo artist had given him. “I’m concerned that this is your idea of fun.”

“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Helsinki says, voice softer.

“Of course, I’m doing it. I’m not some little girl who’s afraid of a needle!” Martín says.

“Okay, ready?” the tattooist asks in English, as she comes back over. Martín nods, holding still as she disinfects his bicep and then smooths on the stencil. She readies the gun and looks at him. “Okay, let me know if you want a break at any point.”

Martín braces himself, his heart racing, fingers tightening in Helsinki’s grasp.

“Oh,” he says when the needle touches his skin. “It’s not actually that bad.”

Helsinki grins. “I told you. Also… you’re pretty drunk so that probably helps.”

“Psh, I’m not that drunk,” Martín responds and he’s right. Helsinki had actually made him sober up a little before they went in to the little parlour – although he doesn’t think the tattoo artist cares either way. “I’m surprised they found room on you to do yours,” he teases.

Helsinki rubs a thumb across Martín’s knuckles. “Of course there was room. I could always have gotten it on my ass if not.”

Martín laughs and the tattooist frowns, telling him to hold still.

All in all, it doesn’t take that long, twenty minutes, if that. They wrap his arm in plastic and tell him to moisturise it. Helsinki nods seriously as if he hasn’t heard that advice probably about a hundred times.

They stumble out into the night still holding hands, Helsinki having to drag Martín away from every bar they pass. The sun is starting to rise by the time they get home and Martín yawns loudly as they walk into the apartment.

“You should rinse that,” Helsinki says, nodding at Martín’s arm.

Martín protests are summarily dismissed and he’s herded into the bathroom where Helsinki removes the plastic wrap, rinses Martín’s arm with the shower head, carefully pats the tattoo dry, rubs some sort of cream on it and then rewraps it, before doing the same to his own ankle.

“Thank you,” Martín says when he’s done and they’ve collapsed onto their bed. Helsinki smiles at him.

“Does it hurt?” he asks and Martín shakes his head. “It suits you. Very sexy.”

Martín rolls over, crawling half on top of Helsinki. “So you like a tattooed man then, Helsi?” Helsinki flushes and Martín grins. “You do, don’t you?”

“Stop that, don’t be a tease,” Helsinki grumbles and Martín laughs.

“And if I weren’t teasing?” Martín purrs. Helsinki’s hands clamp down on his waist and he laughs again. He kisses the corner of Helsinki’s mouth before moving onto his neck.

“Martín,” Helsinki groans, hips jerking up and making Martín gasp.

He pulls away long enough to sit up and pull off first his own shirt and then Helsinki’s. Helsinki stares at him, hands still on his waist, mouth just a little open.

“Are you just going to look at me or are you going to fuck me?” Martín goads and the next thing he knows he’s flat on his back and Helsinki is rummaging through the drawer next to the bed. “It’s under the pillow,” he says, when Helsinki turns back to him with empty hands.

“Of course it is,” Martín hears him sigh and then there’s the click of a cap and slick fingers pressing into him.

He moans and bears down, hands stretching out to grab the edge of the bedframe. “Hurry up, you don’t need to do any more than that.”

Helsinki shoots him a reproving look, which… isn’t entirely unwarranted since Martín had managed to get Helsinki to hurt him in the past with ill preparation which led to three solid days of upset and the silent treatment.

“Mirko, honestly I’m fine, I promise. Now hurry up and fuck me!” He drags Helsinki up for a kiss which the other man doesn’t break, even as he pulls out his fingers and replaces them with something much better.

“Not so bossy now,” Helsinki says later as Martín lies next to him, exhausted.

Martín pokes him in the side, making him grunt. “Shut up,” he mumbles even as he turns into Helsinki’s side, pressing his face to his sweaty chest. “You fucked me because you think my tattoo’s sexy.”

“It’s very you,” Helsinki agrees. “Who else would get depressing lyrics from an 80s song tattooed?” He looks at the tattoo through the clear wrap. “There’s emptiness behind their eyes, there’s dust in all their hearts,” he reads out. “See? Depressing.”

Martín opens his mouth to argue and yawns instead. “It’s not depressing, but I want to sleep instead of telling you how wrong you are.”

“I’m not wrong,” Helsinki grumbles.

Martín pats his chest. “Yes, you are. Now sleep, querido.”

* * *

The bar they’re at is awful. The music is terrible and it’s full of drunk Americans – most of them fifteen years younger than Martín – singing karaoke off-key and generally making a spectacle of themselves.

“And this is why we should only go to gay bars, cariño,” he tells Helsinki when he returns to their semi-circular booth with drinks. He slides Helsinki his beer, keeping the ridiculously large porn-star martini for himself. He downs the shot of prosecco, grinning as Helsinki rolls his eyes.

“That thing is the size of a fish-bowl,” he says and Martín laughs.

“Exactly. It’s massive, tastes like fruit and is going to get me nice and drunk. But you go ahead and enjoy your very manly beer.” Martín takes a sip of his drink, struggling a little to lift it with one hand.

Helsinki takes a gulp of his beer and raises his eyebrows at Martín. “I thought you liked how manly I am.”

“Oh I do,” Martín purrs. “And later I’ll show you just how much I like it. But I still want you to admit to me here and now that my drink tastes better than yours.”

Helsinki leans back in the booth, folding his arms across his chest. “Well, for that you’ll have to let me taste it.” Martín nods and swallows several mouthfuls of the sweet drink. “What, now you’re trying to drink it before I can so I can’t prove you wrong?”

“Nope,” Martín grins, sliding down the seat until he’s pressed up against Helsinki’s side. Then he reaches up and pulls the other man in for a kiss. To his credit, Helsinki is very receptive, immediately grabbing Martín’s waist and pushing his tongue into his mouth.

“Yours is better,” he says as soon as they part and Martín laughs.

He nudges his drink towards Helsinki, who immediately takes a sip. “I told you so, Helsi. Honestly, I’m right about most things.”

Helsinki drapes his arm over Martín’s shoulders and frowns. “What about when you were convinced our neighbour was an Interpol agent?”

“We still don’t know for sure that she isn’t!”

“She’s eighty, Palermo. And what the time you thought cinnamon and nutmeg were the same.”

“You promised not to bring that up again,” Martín whines and Helsinki presses a kiss to his cheek in apology.

Martín is about to come up with an example of Helsinki being wrong about something when a group of Americans walks past their table, one of the men turning to glare at them. Martín’s English, admittedly, isn’t great but he knows when he’s being called a faggot in just about every language – it’s more about the way it’s said, than the actual word.

Helsinki’s English on the other hand is pretty damn good and his hand is on Martín’s thigh, stopping him from getting up by the time Martín has processed that one of the men in the group was talking about them.

“It’s not worth it,” Helsinki warns.

Martín growls. “But you heard what they said!”

“I did,” Helsinki admits. “But this isn’t the bank and they’re not Gandia. You can’t go beat his head in cause he called you a faggot.”

Martín waves his hand dismissively. “I’m not going to beat his head in for calling me a faggot. I’m going to stab him with a corkscrew for calling you one, Mirko.”

“What?” Helsinki asks, blinking in confusion.

Martín sighs, colour rising in his cheeks. “Well, I’ve been called it a lot. I’m used to it. But you? You don’t deserve it and you’re mine so he doesn’t get to talk about you like that.”

“Yours?” Helsinki mouths and before Martín can say anything he’s being pulled into a kiss.

Helsinki’s hands are warm pressure on his neck and the small of his back and he lets his own arms settle around Helsinki’s neck.

“Fuck,” Martín gasps when Helsinki lets go of him. “If I’d known all I needed to do was threaten to stab someone to get you riled up, I’d have done it ages ago.”

Helsinki blushes. “Shut up, душо.”

“Or maybe it was the porn-star martini and its horribly suggestive name?” Martín muses.

Helsinki laughs, tucking Martín into his side in a way that would have been unthinkable before the heist. “I don’t understand why it’s called that.”

Martín shrugs, resting his head against Helsinki’s shoulder. “Who knows, but I want another one as soon as we’ve finished this one.”

* * *

“I’m not going, you can’t make me go, and that’s the end of this discussion,” Martín spits, arms folded across his chest.

Helsinki sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. “It was hardly a discussion. I read the telegram and you said no.”

“Oh I’m sorry. Should I make a pros and cons list? Cons: I get to see a group of people who all hate me. I get to spend time with the man who told his brother to leave me and then ignored me for five years until he needed my help. I get to put up with the same shit as I did before we left, which is just people yelling at me about how I don’t deserve you – as if I didn’t already know that. So forgive me, Mirko, if I’m not really seeing any pros here!”

He can feel his whole body shaking, rage making his vision spottier than it already is.

“No pros?” Helsinki asks quietly, gently nudging Martín until he sits on the sofa.

Martín shakes his head, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Just go, you’ll have a good time. I know you’ve missed everyone.”

Helsinki sits down next to him, hand gentle as it settles on the back of Martín’s neck. “You want me to go alone?”

Martín sniffs, trying to hold back the tears – frankly the amount of times he’s cried over the past year with Helsinki is ridiculous. At least he doesn’t cry during sex. Once was enough and he hadn’t been able to look Helsinki in the eye for about a week afterwards.

 _I don’t want you to go at all_ , is what he really wants to say, but it’s too much, too exposed, too honest.

Instead he nods. “Yeah, yeah I do.”

“Okay,” Helsinki says, which is what Martín had expected, but was the opposite of what he wanted. “Shall I start dinner?”

Martín shrugs. “Do whatever you want. I’m going to bed.”

“It’s not even six yet,” Helsinki says.

“Yeah, well, I’m not hungry,” Martín says over his shoulder already halfway to the bedroom. It’s not even a lie. He isn’t hungry most days, he just eats when Helsinki does.

He closes the bedroom door behind him, kicking off his jeans, and crawling into bed. The curtains are still drawn, they must have forgotten to open them this morning and the room is pleasantly dark.

His chest aches and he doesn’t want to think about Helsinki probably still sitting in the living room, wondering why he ever decided to leave Nairobi and come with Martín. Which is exactly why he doesn’t want to go to Sergio’s ridiculous little reunion – or even want Helsinki to go alone.

No doubt spending two weeks with Nairobi, Tokyo, and Denver all telling him he’s better off without Martín will be enough to change his mind. And now, even after all this time, what can Martín do to prove him wrong?

It would be hard enough to stay in Bangkok alone, waiting, knowing Helsinki isn’t coming back – but to have to be on Sergio’s island and watch it happening? To have to return alone to the apartment they’ve shared and Martín has grown to love? It would be unbearable and he can’t do it. He won’t do it.

It’s best to start distancing now, to get used to the fact that soon there won’t be anyone there to go drinking with him or talk him into getting a ridiculous tattoo or pick him off the floor when he cries or make sure he’s consuming more than just alcohol. No one there to just hold him when he wakes at night and can’t go back to sleep again.

Even though Helsinki is just in the next room, it’s that thought, of how he’ll have to get used to sleeping alone again, how big the bed feels right now that finally breaks him. He can no longer hold back the tears and an ugly sob is ripped from his chest.

He shouldn’t be sad. He’s already got more than he deserves – a year of relative happiness was more than he ever thought he’d have. He supposes you become accustomed to things either way, regardless of whether you deserve them.

He curls himself up into a ball, crying into the pillow that Helsinki insisted was hypo-allergenic even though Martín’s convinced he’s seen feathers come out of it.

Eventually he cries himself to sleep, face puffy and horrible, chest still as tight as if stuffed with cotton wool.

He wakes when the door opens, flooding the room with light. It closes again quickly, but Martín’s already awake. Aware of his pounding headache and the way his eyes are swollen.

One side of the bed dips when Helsinki sits down and Martín’s pathetically grateful that at least he doesn’t have to get used to sleeping without him tonight.

He must make a noise that signals his consciousness, because all of a sudden, he’s being scooped up and pulled onto Helsinki’s lap. He curls around Martín, arms holding him tightly and Martín feels like he can breathe for the first time in hours.

He doesn’t say anything, just lets Helsinki press a kiss to his hair, another to his cheek, another on the back of his neck.

“биће све у реду душо,” Helsinki eventually murmurs.

Martín sighs. “You know I don’t speak Serbian.”

“You haven’t been speaking at all.” When Martín just shrugs, he noses at his jaw. “I know this isn’t just because you don’t want to see the others.”

“Oh really,” Martín scoffs, uncomfortable at how perceptive Helsinki is. “Then what is it about?”

Helsinki strokes his back. “I don’t know. And I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”

“And there’s no point telling you, because you can’t fix it,” Martín replies. He feels Helsinki sigh, his disappointment palpable, which is probably why Martín then says: “You should take the pillows with you.”

Helsinki tenses. “What? Why?” he asks.

“Because you like them.”

“I don’t think we have to bring our own pillows to the Professor’s island,” Helsinki says slowly and his confusion would make Martín smile if his heart weren’t half-way to irreparably broken.

He swallows, his hands shaking as he curls his fingers into Helsinki’s shirt. “No I mean for after. Although I suppose I can send you them once you’re settled. And anything else you want of course.”

“Settled? Martín what are you talking about?”

Martín wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and sits up so he can look at Helsinki – well as much as he can see in the darkened room, which isn’t a lot. “I’m talking about you going to the reunion.”

Helsinki nods. “Yes, I understood that part.”

“So you’ll go and you’ll see everyone again and maybe at first you’ll think of me. When they all say: ‘Oh Helsinki we’re glad you came. Have you left Palermo then? Good for you.’ And you’ll laugh and you’ll tell them we’re still together and that I’m waiting here, right?” Helsinki nods and Martín continues.

“But the days will go on and you’ll have fun and you’ll remember just how much you love them all. And when they say ‘Helsi are you sure you want to go back?’, you’ll nod, but you aren’t sure anymore. Then Nairobi will say ‘Helsi, you should come back with Bogota and me. If Palermo really loved you he’d be here with you, wouldn’t he?’. And you’ll think it over and maybe you’ll sleep on it and you’ll realise she’s right. You’ll finally realise what they’ve all been trying to tell you is true. That you’re too good for me and that it’s a lot of effort for nothing in return and you’ll leave. You’ll go with Nairobi and Bogota and you won’t think of me. You won’t think of me, but I’ll think of you and I’ll be grateful that I got to love you for as long as I did,” Martín finishes, dissolving into an incoherent sobbing mess.

Helsinki isn’t stroking him anymore, his hands limp against Martín’s body and he knows it means he’s right.

“No,” Helsinki says, his voice hoarse. “јебати, no. None of that is true.”

“It’s okay,” Martín chokes out. “I don’t blame you. I just want you to be happy.”

“Martín!” Helsinki says, grabbing his face. He sounds desperate, but his hands are gentle as he holds Martín still, thumbs wiping at the tears. “I need you to listen to me. I am not leaving. Not now, not if I go to the reunion, not ever. Even if Nairobi did ask me to stay with her, I wouldn’t go.”

“I don’t –” Martín starts, but Helsinki stops him.

“No, listen, listen. I won’t leave and I know all this is because you think you’re bad, but when you say these things… it makes it seem like it’s because,” he pauses, wiping his own eyes. “It makes it seem like it’s because I don’t love you. And I need you to know that’s not true. Okay?”

Martín nods, but cries harder and Helsinki finally hugs him again, letting him press his face to his neck even though it must be really wet and sort of disgusting.

“I know that’s not what you meant,” Helsinki says, voice soft. “So that’s why I think we should both go to the reunion. Not so you can make sure I come back, but so you can show the others how I see you. And then not one of them will tell me to leave you.”

Martín wipes his face with his t-shirt. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Most things are,” Helsinki says. “You could try pros and cons again. Best and worst case.”

Martín sighs. “Fine. Cons: all that stuff I said already could happen.”

“And pros?” Helsinki prompts him.

“Pros…” he says quietly. “Pros are that you’re happy. And I get to see you be happy.”

“And that,” Helsinki says quietly. “Is why none of will say anything. Because I know you and I know you love me.”

Martín offers him a half-smile. “Even though I haven’t said it?”

Helsinki kisses him on the forehead, beard tickling his nose. “Yes. But you did say it, earlier.”

Martín replays the last minutes in his head. “Oh, I did sort of.”

“You did,” Helsinki says and Martín kisses him properly.

“It’s not that I don’t want to say it,” he admits, forehead pressed to Helsinki’s, so close they’re breathing the same air. “It’s just that…”

“You’re scared,” Helsinki finishes for him and though Martín looks for it, he can’t hear a hint of accusation in his voice. He rests one large hand on the side of Martín’s face. “What if, I promise that if you say it first, I’ll say it back.”

“Okay,” Martín agrees and it’s ridiculous how fast his heart is beating. “I say it first and you’ll say it back?” he double checks and Helsinki nods. “Okay. Mirko, I love you.” He says it too fast and the words are sort of jumbled, but he can see Helsinki smiling.

“I love you too, Martín.”

Martín kisses him to try and hide the fact that he’s sort of crying again, not that Helsinki can’t tell.

“So when is this reunion again?” Martín asks, wriggling until they’re both lying down, one of his legs between Helsinki’s, face pressed to Helsinki’s collarbone.

Helsinki strokes Martín’s back with one hand, the other running through his hair. “In three weeks.”

“Ugh.”

“You’re going to go, right?”

“Of course I am.”

* * *

“I don’t understand why we’re here,” Helsinki grumbles as Martín drags him through the shop.

They stop in front of a rack of horrible cargo shorts. “Because, cariño,” Martín says, attempting not to sound like a mother scolding her child. “In less than a week, we are having a reunion with your weird heist family and they all hate me so at least we’ll be well dressed.”

Helsinki sighs, kisses Martín, and then goes back to complaining. “I don’t need new clothes. And also, they don’t hate you. The Professor likes you.”

“Pah, who cares about Sergio,” Martín says, wandering over to a display of beautiful silk shirts. “Come and look at these. They’re like those Hawaiian ones you like but… better.”

Helsinki sighs, but lets Martín hold various shirts up against him. “My other shirts are fine.”

Martín nods. “Yes. Fine but not good. So please just let me make you look presentable.”

“Fine, but you owe me,” Helsinki grumbles and while Martín’s pride wants him to argue that it should be the other way around since he’s making Helsinki better, he can’t pass up the opportunity to make Helsinki blush in public.

“Do I now?” he purrs, pressing himself against the line of Helsinki’s body. “Would you like me to repay that favour in the dressing rooms? You’ll have to keep quiet though, wouldn’t want anyone catching us.”

“I’m not the one who’s loud,” Helsinki says, but he looks distinctly hot around the collar.

Martín nods and picks up another shirt. “True, but how loud can I be when my mouth is full?”

Helsinki audibly chokes and Martín grins. “I hate you, Palermo.”

“And here I thought you loved me,” Martín pouts. “How cruel of you, Helsi, to jerk me around like this.”

“The minute we’re out of here, we’re going home and I’m going to –”

Martín holds a hand up to his mouth, mock scandalised. “Querido please, there are children here. Now go try on your shirts. I’m going to look for jeans.”

He flounces off ignoring how Helsinki calls after him that none of the children who are shopping with their families speak Spanish. He gathers as many fitted trousers and tasteful shorts as he thinks he can persuade Helsinki to try on and then carries them over to the changing rooms.

“Helsi?” he calls.

“Last cubicle,” he hears in return. He pushes past the bored looking husbands and impatient girlfriends until he gets to the final cubicle in the row. He throws back the curtain making Helsinki drop the shirt he was holding.

Martín laughs as Helsinki glares at him. “ти си сероња,” he grumbles and Martín darts forward to press a kiss to his forehead, getting on his tip-toes to do so, before handing him the stack of trousers.

“Spare me the niceties and try these on, mi amor,” he says, before disappearing back out into the waiting area.

When Helsinki emerges a few minutes later in a light-blue shirt and white jeans, Martín smiles.

“Look at you, so handsome.”

Helsinki looks down at himself. “Why are these jeans so tight?”

Martín shrugs. “Mostly so I have a reason to stare at your ass.” Helsinki predictably colours. “Oh come on, remember before the heist? When I wore those black jeans? They’re the whole reason I knew you were gay. You literally stared at me like you wanted to rip them right off me. Now let me have that same experience.”

Helsinki sighs. “And this has nothing to do with making Nairobi jealous?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Martín says primly and Helsinki laughs. “Now get back in there. You have lots more to try on and then we need to go look at stuff for me.”

They don’t get back to the flat until hours later, weighed down with countless bags of clothing.

“Was all this really necessary?” Helsinki asks, depositing the bulk of the bags next to the sofa.

Martín nods. “Absolutely. You look fucking hot in each and every outfit and so do I.”

Helsinki sighs. “Well, if it means you’ll be happy at the reunion it was worth this hell.”

“It was hell, wasn’t it?” Martín asks with a grin. “So what do you want as a reward?”

Instead of answering, Helsinki just crosses the room in several long strides and picks Martín up. He decidedly doesn’t squeak as he’s lifted, wrapping his legs around Helsinki’s waist. He’s not carried for long, because Helsinki puts him on the kitchen island.

“Clothes,” Helsinki orders and Martín strips as quickly as he can without getting off the counter.

Helsinki strips off his shirt, making to move towards Martín who holds out a hand to stop him. “Uh-uh. Go get lube first. You’re not fucking me with olive oil again.”

Helsinki looks put upon, but there’s no trace of regret later when he’s fucking into Martín so hard that he nearly slides off the counter.

“Fuck, Mirko, do that again,” Martín moans, burying his face in Helsinki’s shoulder.

Helsinki does, hitting Martín’s prostate dead on. He leans forward, kissing Martín sloppily, ignoring the way his fingernails dig almost painfully into the tattoos on back.

“Please,” is all Martín is able to articulate, but thankfully Helsinki knows what he means, pulling back to wrap a hand around Martín’s aching erection.

“I got you,” Helsinki says, tongue tracing a path from Martín’s neck down one shoulder and across the words tattooed on his arm which have finally healed.

Martín comes with a punched-out shout, Helsinki following shortly after and collapsing forward, his head resting on Martín’s chest.

Martín strokes his head, enjoying the closeness for a moment. “Mirko, I love you,” he says sincerely. “But I refuse to clean the work-surface.”

Helsinki laughs, patting Martín’s side. “It’s not my sweaty ass that’s on there.”

“You’re the one who insisted on fucking me here,” Martín argues, but it’s only half-heartedly.

Helsinki peels himself off Martín, dampening some kitchen roll under the tap and cleaning them both up. “How about I carry you to the sofa and we take a nap, љубљени? We can deal with cleaning later.”

“Deal,” Martín agrees and lets himself be carried into the living room. Helsinki puts him down, stretching out on the sofa and Martín crawls on top of him.

“You’re really warm,” Helsinki grouches.

“Tough shit,” Martín says, eyes already shut. “I’m too old to do this sort of thing after shopping all day, I need to sleep.”

“You’re only a year older than me.”

“Shh, querido, I don’t want to listen to your logic right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this all horribly ooc? Probably, but I regret nothing.  
> Martín's tattoo is lyrics from "Love My Way" by the Psychedelic Furs, whom I love. It's not specified but Helsi got a Dali mask because of course he did. I also may have accidentally given him more tattoos than he has, but oh well. (more unsolicited advice: don't get tattoos when you're drunk, alcohol thins your blood and you'll bleed way more)  
> Also lockdown has robbed me both of getting drunk on pornstar martinis and my tattoo appointments so I am living vicariously through Martín in this lol
> 
> Next up will be the reunion!!!
> 
> Serbian translations (very sorry to any actual serbs, I'm just using google translate):  
> душо - honey  
> биће све у реду душо - it'll be alright, baby/honey  
> јебати - fuck  
> ти си сероња - you're an asshole  
> љубљени - beloved


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay sorry this update took so long i have no excuses, i'm just lazy  
> No TWs for this one except for my terrible attempts at smut lol

Martín shifts uncomfortably on the bench seat as the boat speeds towards Sergio’s island.

Helsinki frowns. “Are you alright, душо?”

Martín grimaces, trying to get comfortable. “Fine, fine. Remind me next time not to let you fuck me so hard the day before we go on a twelve-hour journey.”

Helsinki colours, covering his face with one hand. “Martín,” he groans and Martín laughs.

“It’s fine, he doesn’t speak any Spanish,” he says, gesturing at the man driving the boat. “And I enjoyed it at the time, didn’t I?”

“Maybe too much,” Helsinki mumbles.

Martín shrugs. “The neighbour said they smelled gas, not that we were being loud.”

“You know that was an excuse, Martín.”

“Fine, from now on I’ll be silent as a grave,” Martín pouts and Helsinki snorts. “What, you don’t think I can be quiet?”

“I know you can’t be quiet,” Helsinki says, throwing his arm around Martín. Martín flushes – he’d always thought Helsinki liked it the noises he made – and Helsinki must notice because he presses a kiss to his temple. “Don’t overthink it,” he says quietly and Martín nods.

“We’re almost there,” the boat man says in English, pointing at an island straight ahead of them.

Martín squints in the glare of the sunlight, unable to see much more than the beach and the trees. Helsinki squeezes his shoulder and points.

“There’s people on the beach,” he says. Martín tries to follow Helsinki’s line of sight and he sees blurry shapes on the sand. “I think it’s Denver and Nairobi!”

Helsinki gets to his feet and waves. From the island, there are answering shouts and – Martín assumes – waves.

Helsinki looks back down at Martín, a wide grin on his face and Martín quickly schools his features into a smile. “Guess we’re the last to arrive, huh?”

Helsinki nods, sitting back down again. “I guess. Are you excited?”

“Sure,” Martín says with a shrug. “I know you are.”

“It’ll be nice to see everyone,” Helsinki confirms, his face still unable to hide his joy at the imminent reunion. Martín nods and Helsinki takes his hand. “Are you still worried?”

“Of course not,” Martín says and Helsinki sighs, taking his face in his hands.

“It’ll be okay. And if… if you really want to leave at any point then we’ll leave. Okay?”

Martín nods and lets Helsinki kiss him until he hears the engine cut out.

“We’re here,” the driver says with an extremely unimpressed look at them.

Martín looks over the side of the boat. “We’re still in the middle of the ocean.”

“It’s waist high,” the man says with an eye roll. “And if I go any further I can’t turn around easily.”

Martín makes to argue, but Helsinki puts a hand on his shoulder and hands the man the money they owe him.

“Mirko, these are new,” Martín says, gesturing at his suede loafers. “The salt water will ruin them.”

Helsinki laughs. “You’re a princess. Do you want me to carry you?”

Martín hesitates. “No,” he says, because he really doesn’t want the rest of the gang to see him being carried to shore like a girl.

Helsinki raises his eyebrows. “I’ll carry you. But that means you get the bags.”

Martín laughs, giving in easily. “Deal.”

Helsinki hands Martín their bags, two large dufflebags which Martín hangs from each of his shoulders, the straps intersecting across his chest. Helsinki jumps out of the boat, splashing into the water.

“Look, it really is only waist high,” Helsinki says, looking down.

“On you maybe,” Martín says grumpily, making Helsinki laugh again.

He pats his shoulders, crouching a bit and Martín climbs onto them, settling his thighs on either side of Helsinki’s neck. Helsinki tucks Martín’s ankles under his arms, holding onto his shins, and starts to wade ashore.

“You’re lucky I love you, because you’re very heavy, срце,” Helsinki grunts.

Martín pats his head. “I’ll make it up to you. But not tonight, I’m still really fucking sore.”

He feels Helsinki laugh as they finally make it onto dry land. Martín sheds the bags, dropping them onto the sand. Then, Helsinki crouches and helps Martín slide off his shoulders. Martín is barely on the ground before he hears a shriek and Nairobi is crashing into Helsinki, jumping into his arms.

“Helsi!” she yells, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Finally, I’ve been waiting all day!”

He spins her and Martín steps to the side, picking up their bags as Helsinki and Nairobi exchange their overenthusiastic greetings.

Denver comes jogging down the beach towards them, Cincinnati in his arms.

“Palermo!” he says with his customary laugh. “It’s good to see you! How are you?”

“Can’t complain,” Martín says, engaging in a one-armed hug with Denver.

“I’m sure you could,” Nairobi says, having been put down by Helsinki.

Martín sighs and Helsinki frowns at Nairobi. “It’s nice to see you too, Nairobi. How are things with you and Bogota?”

She narrows he eyes, as if searching his words for a hidden meaning. “We’re good thank you,” she says, before turning back to Helsinki. “Come on Helsi, let’s go see the others.”

She tucks her arm through is and starts to guide him down the beach and towards the house. He throws Martín an apologetic look over his shoulder and Martín wonders whether it’s too soon to try and convince Helsinki to leave.

“Do you want help with the bags?” Denver asks awkwardly.

Martín shakes his head. “It’s okay, you have Cincinnati. How are you and Stockholm anyway?”

Denver launches into a long and somewhat complicated story about him and Stockholm trying to teach Cincinnati not to speak with a Colombian accent that somehow involves their landlord and Martín nods along, trying not to stare at Helsinki and Nairobi who are still walking arm in arm ahead of them.

By the time they make it to the house and Denver has put Cincinnati down to run off to wherever it is small children go, Martín’s shoulder aches from the bags and he’s got a pit in his stomach which reminds him of all the reasons he didn’t want to come here in the first place.

“Palermo,” he hears a voice say and then Sergio is coming towards him, Lisbon by his side.

Martín awkwardly hugs Sergio, who seems just as uncomfortable, and then kisses Lisbon on both cheeks.

“How are you?” Lisbon asks with a friendly smile.

Martín nods. “Good, yeah, we’ve been good.” He looks around, searching for Helsinki.

“Nairobi dragged him into the kitchen I think,” Sergio says, correctly interpreting his questioning look.

“Right, I uh, suppose I should put the bags away then,” Martín says, hating how hesitant he sounds. But it’s been so long since he’s been around someone who isn’t Mirko, with whom – despite everything – he feels eminently comfortable.

“I’ll show you where you’ll be staying,” Lisbon says, guiding him into the house.

It’s larger than Martín would have expected of Sergio, maybe he always planned on them having a reunion like this, but he’s grateful he doesn’t have to carry the bags too much further.

“It’s okay that you two are sharing, right?” Lisbon asks as she leads him into a room not dissimilar to the one he was in before they all split up.

It’s fairly plain with a double bed and a door which he assumes leads to a bathroom.

“Of course,” he says. “We’re together after all.”

Lisbon smiles. “Good. We just… we weren’t sure whether you two were –”

“Still together?” Martín asks, cutting her off and she purses her lips but nods. “Well we are.”

“I’m glad,” Lisbon says seriously, her eyes studying his face. “I’ll leave you to freshen up. Everyone is out on the patio, I’m sure you can find your way there.”

Martín nods tersely. “Thank you.”

She leaves, shutting the door behind her and he sighs, flopping backwards onto the bed.

If he were home he would probably shower and then go straight to bed to hide from wanting to crawl out of his own skin. He hadn’t expected the warmest reception and at least Denver and Sergio had treated him well, but Nairobi concerns him.

If anyone will try and convince Helsinki to leave Martín it will be her – and maybe Tokyo. But there’s nothing really that he can do about it. Helsinki has asked Martín to trust him and to trust in their relationship and Martín owes it to him to at least try.

He unpacks their toiletries and goes into the bathroom, that is indeed just through the door, to splash water on his face. Then he digs a fresh shirt out of his bag and strips off his old one. It smells like travel and his dented pride won’t allow something as small as that to be commented on. The new one has a hazy sort of pattern and rides up a bit at certain angles, but it’s not like he’ll be doing yoga, so it should be fine for a dinner.

He smooths out the wrinkles as best he can once it’s on, fixes his hair and then goes in search of Helsinki and the others.

He finds them, just as Lisbon had promised, out on the terrace which he accesses through the sliding glass door in the kitchen.

He’s greeted by Stockholm and Rio who are carrying jugs of what looks like lemonade. Marseille nods at him and Bogota offers his hand, which is standard behaviour for both of them and calms his nerves a little.

Helsinki is on one side of the table, seated between Nairobi and Manila. He waves when he sees Martín and Manila automatically gets up and moves over a seat. Martín greets her with a kiss on the cheek and she smiles. He’d liked her in the small amount of time they spent together in the monastery and at Sergio’s other house.

“Palermo, we thought you’d got lost,” Tokyo says, sounding almost friendly from where she’s sat next to Nairobi.

Martín gives a half-smile as he drops into the chair next to Helsinki, who smiles and puts a hand on his knee. “No, just putting our bags away.”

Tokyo nods and exchanges an indecipherable look with Nairobi. Martín debates questioning it, but just then Denver appears, Cincinnati under his arm and Bogota cheers.

“That’s a full house, Professor,” he says and as Martín looks around he confirms Bogota’s words.

“Speech,” Nairobi yells, making Sergio blink hard. “You have to do a speech, Professor.”

“Uh,” Sergio says, raising his glass. “Well, it’s great to have you all here. To the gang, I guess.”

“To the family,” Stockholm adds and Sergio gives her a nervous smile.

“To the family,” everyone repeats and Martín grabs the glass of lemonade that Stockholm handed him.

Everyone drinks and then sort of lapses into silence until Denver speaks. “What’s for dinner?” he asks loudly and there’s general laughter and ribbing as he frowns.

“Okay?” Helsinki asks quietly, his hand still resting on Martín’s knee.

Martín smiles tightly. “Of course, querido.”

Helsinki squeezes his leg gently.

“So what’s everyone been up to?” Lisbon asks.

“Helsinki and Palermo were last to arrive so they should go first,” Tokyo suggests and Martín frowns even though he can’t detect any malice in her voice.

He shrugs. “Not that much, right?”

Helsinki smiles fondly. “Well, we have an apartment that overlooks the bay. And Bangkok has so many different restaurants and bars to explore. Oh and we got tattoos.”

“Tattoos?” Rio questions.

Denver laughs obnoxiously. “Did you get each others’ names?”

Martín scowls. “Of course not. Helsi, show him your leg.”

Helsinki stretches his foot up onto Martín’s lap and taps the inside of his leg, just above his ankle. Martín watches as everyone leans forward to look at the now familiar tattoo of the Dali mask.

“I love it,” Nairobi declares. “It’s like you have a piece of the gang with you always.”

“Exactly!” Helsinki says and Martín rubs his ankle before he pulls his leg away.

“So do you have the same thing, Palermo?” Rio asks.

Martín snorts and Helsinki laughs. “No, Palermo is far too dramatic for that.”

Martín lets Helsinki manhandle him into stretching his arm and rolling up his sleeve. Helsinki traces a thumb over the dark ink and Martín blushes.

“Are those Psychedelic Furs lyrics?” Lisbon asks and Martín nods with a new found respect for her.

“Seems like things are going well for you both,” Sergio says, eyes fixed on Martín.

Helsinki throws an arm around Martín’s shoulders. “I’d say so.”

“Yeah,” Martín agrees. “They are.”

“What about you, Nairobi?” Helsinki asks as Martín leans back into his arm.

“Well,” Nairobi says, getting to her feet. “I’m pregnant!” she announces, pointing at her stomach.

There’s chaos as everyone stumbles over themselves to congratulate her, Tokyo getting there first, closely followed by Helsinki.

Martín turns to look at Bogota who is looking extremely pleased with himself. “Congratulations, hermano,” he says to him and Bogota smiles.

“Thank you.”

The general hubbub eventually settles down and they fall into easy conversation of what everyone has been up to the past months. Martín stays fairly quiet, content to listen. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t still a little on edge. No one is being openly hostile as he feared, but he knows he’s not just being paranoid when he says that Nairobi is definitely watch every one of his and Helsinki’s interactions closely.

Eventually Lisbon suggests they have dinner, and everyone is roped into collecting the food and dishes from the kitchen. Helsinki is immediately handed the biggest bowl of potato salad Martín has ever seen and ordered to take it outside since neither Stockholm or Rio can lift it.

“Palermo will you get the wine glasses? They’re on the top shelf over there,” Lisbon says and Martín nods, squeezing past Nairobi who is assembling cutlery at the kitchen island.

The shelf is just a little too high so he has to go up onto his toes and reach to pull down the first few wine glasses. He’s put down the first batch and is stretching to grab the next ones when there’s a gasp and a metal clattering sound from behind him.

He turns to see Nairobi glaring at him. “What?” he asks, wary of the large serving fork she has in one hand.

“I knew it,” she says. “I knew you playing house in Thailand was too good to be true.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Martín asks, aware that the whole kitchen is watching them.

Nairobi thankfully puts the fork down, but then lunges forward and lifts his shirt up. Martín looks down and goes red at the finger shaped bruises on his hips. He slaps her hands away and she scowls at him.

“You’re cheating on him,” she declares and Martín drops the wine glass he’s holding.

“Are you crazy? Does having Bogota’s spawn inside you rob you of your brains?” he hisses.

She juts her chin out obstinately. “I know Helsi, he wouldn’t do that sort of thing, wouldn't leave bruises like that.”

Martín knows his face is still red, but he can’t believe she would actually pull something like this. “Obviously you don’t know him that well. It’s okay that you don’t like me, or don’t think I’m good enough for him or whatever – I’m glad he has you as a friend. But that’s all you ever were. You don’t know what he’s like as a partner.”

“I know enough to know he wouldn’t do that!” Nairobi insists.

“What’s going on?” Sergio asks as he enters the kitchen with Helsinki.

Martín scoffs. “Nairobi was just enlightening everyone on how she figured out with her amazing detective skills that I’m cheating on Helsinki.”

“What?” Helsinki asks, looking shocked and sort of angry. But the look isn’t directed at Martín, it’s at Nairobi.

Nairobi grabs at Martín’s shirt again. “You mean to tell me you did this, Helsi?”

Martín slaps at her hands again, getting really rather tired of her exposing his waist to everyone.

Helsinki goes bright red, casting his eyes to the ceiling, but nods.

“Told you,” Martín spits. “Now can we please not talk about our sex life? You don’t hear me asking Stockholm to tell us what she gets up to with Denver.”

Nairobi looks angry and a little embarrassed and Martín grabs the last wine glasses off the shelf and pushes past her.

When he gets to the doorway where Helsinki is still standing with Sergio who looks like he wants the earth to swallow him up, he stops.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to come,” he tells Helsinki, walking past him when Sergio steps aside to let him through.

“Nairobi? Can we talk?” Martín hears Helsinki ask, but he doesn’t listen for her response.

Only Marseille is still sitting at the table and true to form he doesn’t say anything when Martín starts slamming glasses onto the table.

“Are you okay?” Sergio asks, approaching Martín slowly.

Martín shrugs as he flings himself into his seat. “Sure, I’m fucking great.”

Sergio sighs, sitting down too. “She shouldn’t have said that.”

“No shit,” Martín replies, longing to be off this island and back in his flat with Mirko.

Sergio is quiet for a long while and Martín listens to the clattering and voices coming from the kitchen.

“You know my first thought when I bought this house is that Andrés would have hated it,” Sergio says and Martín’s head jerks up at the mention of Andrés' name.

He nods slowly. “He would have. It’s too modern.”

“He’d probably have called it tacky,” Sergio agrees.

Martín considers him for a moment. “I have the same thoughts sometimes. When we’re in a restaurant or… clothes shopping.”

“He was a man of impeccable taste,” Sergio allows with a grin. “Well, he thought so anyway.”

“Do you think it’ll ever go away? His voice in our heads?” Martín asks, swallowing hard.

Sergio shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Not when you’ve known someone – loved someone that long. But I hope for you that it fades a little. You’re allowed to move on.”

Martín blinks, unused to the empathy from Sergio.

“I think he already has,” Marseille says from his corner.

Sergio smiles. “I think you’re right, Marseille.”

“Typical, all the old men are sat outside doing nothing,” Tokyo says loudly as she emerges from the house carrying a stack of plates. “At least set these out!” she orders before disappearing again, leaving the plates on the table

“She’s so bossy,” Martín mutters, sharing a slightly commiserating glance with Sergio as they both get to their feet and start distributing plates.

They’re quickly joined by the others, carrying the remaining dishes of food, with Denver brandishing the wine triumphantly.

Helsinki and Nairobi follow last, both looking resigned, but not unhappy. Helsinki drops into the seat next to Martín, slinging an arm around him and pressing a kiss to the side of his head.

“Okay?” Martín asks him and he nods.

Nairobi seats herself on Helsinki’s other side, observing them coolly, but no longer glowering.

Dinner goes smoothly, without any more incidents and Martín lets himself enjoy the food and the wine – and even the company – relaxing more and more as the evening goes on.

He's half asleep against Helsinki’s shoulder when Stockholm asks Lisbon about her daughter.

“Ah Paula, she’s spending the weekend with my mother. She’s still insisting on living independently in the city, but she has a nurse of course. Paula should be back tomorrow evening though,” Lisbon says, smiling as Sergio settles a hand on her knee.

“That’s great, then Cincinnati can meet his cousin,” Stockholm says, her face a little pink from the white wine that Tokyo had been liberally pouring all evening.

“More children?” Martín mutters to Helsinki who shushes him.

Martín shrugs and pours himself more wine with a yawn.

“I think you’d better get your wife to bed soon, Helsinki, or he’ll fall asleep before you can do anything fun,” Tokyo says with a wicked grin.

Helsinki blushes and Martín frowns. “Why are you so interested, did you want to join?”

Tokyo chokes on her drink and Denver’s trademark laugh rings out.

“God no,” she says. “I don’t want anywhere near your bed.”

“Kind of sounded like you do,” Manila teases and Tokyo points a threatening finger at her.

“Hey, don’t mess with me, lady!” Tokyo says, her tone serious but there’s a smile on her face.

Nairobi pats her shoulder. “Yeah, Tokyo’s a bad ass.”

“Damn right,” Tokyo says, jumping to her feet, which has the unfortunate side effect of bashing her knees into the table and sending people’s drinks everywhere.

Martín manages to avoid the worst of it, but Helsinki ends up with a full glass of wine on his shirt and trousers.

Martín and Manila both cackle, but Martín stops when he sees Nairobi all over Helsinki – presumably trying to dry him off with the napkins Lisbon handed them.

“Maybe we should call it a night?” Sergio suggests and Martín nods.

“Good idea, come on Helsi, let’s get you cleaned up,” Martín says, maybe a little too possessively but most everyone is drunk so he decides not to care too much.

Helsinki gives him a fond look and lets Martín take his hand, pulling him up and out of his seat.

The others start to move as well and Martín scowls when Nairobi kisses Helsinki’s cheek.

“Come on, let’s go,” he says, dragging Helsinki away from her.

They stumble past the others and into the dark house, Helsinki happy to be lead.

“I can’t believe how she her hands on you,” Martín mutters to himself, tugging Helsinki into their room. “And then she kissed you!”

“Wait are you jealous?” Helsinki asks as Martín drags him into the bathroom.

Martín scowls. “The woman was literally in love with you, Mirko.”

“Yes, but I’m in love with you,” Helsinki says softly and if Martín weren’t still a little angry and drunk he’d melt right into Helsinki’s arms at that.

Instead he pulls off his shirt and shimmies out of his jeans, pointing at Helsinki’s shorts. “Take those off, we’re going to shower. I can smell her perfume and Sergio’s terrible wine all over you.”

“We?” Helsinki asks with a smile as he steps out of his shorts.

“Yes,” Martín says, slapping Helsinki’s ass. “Now move before I remember how much wine I’ve drunk and want to sleep instead.”

Helsinki does move, sliding open the glass door and turning on the shower. The water pressure isn’t ideal, but he turns the temperature up way higher than Martín knows he likes it. When Martín frowns, Helsinki shrugs and says: “You get cold easily.”

“Fuck,” Martín groans and kisses him, walking them both under the spray.

Helsinki cups one of his asscheeks, pulling Martín closer. “Maybe I should let Nairobi kiss me more often,” he mumbles against Martín’s lips.

“Don’t you dare,” Martín hisses, pinching Helsinki’s side, before sinking to his knees.

It’s not the most uncomfortable place he’s ever given someone a blowjob, but it’s not comfortable either. He keeps getting water in his eyes and his knees start hurting after a couple minutes, but he likes the way Helsinki’s big hands come to rest in on his head, fingers curling in Martín’s hair.

He blinks up at Helsinki, because as awkward a position as this is, he never gets tired of how Helsinki looks at him when Martín has his dick in his mouth. He always looks completely open and astonished, as if no one has ever done this before. Martín hollows his cheeks and Helsinki groans, tightening his grip on Martín’s hair.

It’s different from the first time they did this. For one thing, Martín doesn’t spit and go brush his teeth the minute Helsinki comes, instead letting himself be dragged up off his knees and into a deep kiss. For another, he lets Helsinki reciprocate, lets him push him against the wall of the shower and wrap a hand around him.

“I feel like we aren’t any cleaner,” Helsinki says when Martín is leaning against his shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist to stop his legs from giving out.

Martín laughs shakily. “No, but don’t you feel better?”

“Mmh,” Helsinki agrees, handing him his shampoo. “Do you? Not jealous anymore?”

Martín soaps up his hair. “I wasn’t jealous, I just thought you needed to remember what I can give you.”

Helsinki gives him a soft smile. “I never forgot.”

“Ugh,” Martín says squeezing past him to step under the spray and rinse out the shampoo. “Stop being nice, I already love you.”

“I know you do,” Helsinki says. “Are you alright? After…”

“I’m fine. It’s just… you know this is what I was worried about and it happened literally two hours after we arrived.”

Martín wipes water off his face and sees Helsinki nodding. “I know and I’m sorry. Just know that I’m not leaving you.”

“I know that,” Martín says uncertainly, swapping places with him again. “Now let’s dry off and go to bed. I’m about to fall asleep standing up.”

* * *

Martín wakes with his head tucked under Helsinki’s chin and all the blankets kicked off the bed. He groans when he moves his head, regretting the amount of wine he consumed last night. Helsinki seems to still be asleep, but wakes when Martín peels himself off him.

“Morning, љубљени” he mumbles, turning and burying his face in the space Martín just vacated.

Martín can’t help the smile that spreads across his face as he tries to work out how someone so big can be so cute. “Good morning, querido.”

He leaves Helsinki to wake up and goes to the bathroom to start his day.

When he emerges twenty minutes later, freshly shaved and teeth brushed, Helsinki only looks marginally more awake, propped up against the headboard.

“Hey,” Martín says, crawling up on the bed to sit on his legs. “You need to get up, it’s after twelve, not even morning anymore.”

Helsinki sighs, wrapping his arms around him and tugging until Martín collapses onto his chest. “Can’t we have a couple more hours sleep?” he asks, voice muffled by Martín’s hair.

“Nope,” Martín says, stroking Helsinki’s side. “I’m hungry and I refuse to go out there without you. Or Nairobi will start a rumour that I murdered you over night.”

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Helsinki says, his arms tightening around Martín. “She was just worried, but that was just a very bad way to express it.”

“You think?” Martín says sarcastically.

“I’ll get her to apologise,” Helsinki promises.

Martín sighs against his sternum. “Don’t bother. Just get up and have breakfast with me, okay?”

Helsinki lifts Martín’s chin enough so they can kiss. “Okay,” he says. “Then get off me so I can get dressed.”

Martín rolls off both him and the bed and walks over to their bags to dig out some clothes. He picks out one of the new green silk shirts they bought for Helsinki and a black one with daisies on it for himself. He also makes sure to throw the white jeans that he likes Helsinki in onto the bed.

“Really? These ones?” Helsinki asks when he sees the jeans upon returning from the bathroom.

“I’ve told you before that you look hot in them. Don’t you believe me?”

Helsinki rolls his eyes. “Of course, I do.” He frowns as he watches Martín pull on his own shorts and shirt. “You know that’s really see-through, right?”

Martín looks down at [his shirt](https://twitter.com/angstypalermo/status/1274003204779491330) and then winks at Helsinki. “Why do you think I bought it?”

“You’re evil,” Helsinki says, drawing him in for a kiss.

“That’s as may be,” Martín says when he pulls away. “But I also really want coffee. Are you ready to go?”

Helsinki turns back and grabs his sunglasses after seeing Martín’s are already on his head. Then he takes Martín’s hand in his and follows him out of the room.

There’s no one in the kitchen when they enter, but there are voices out on the patio.

“Coffee first?” Martín asks when Helsinki makes to head straight outside.

Helsinki nods, grabbing them two mugs while Martín makes a beeline for the still half-full coffee pot he can see sitting on the warming plate.

He’s just poured coffee into the two delightfully large mugs when Nairobi and Bogota enter the kitchen. If he weren’t still pissed at her, Martín would think about telling her that the red dress she’s wearing suits her. As it is, he nods at her, smiles at Bogota and then focusses on returning the coffee pot as Helsinki wisher her a good morning.

“Palermo.” He turns when he hears Nairobi say his name. She’s standing between Helsinki and Bogota looking distinctly unimpressed. “Can I speak to you?”

He frowns at her. “Why? If you’re going to accuse me of cheating again, feel free to do it in front of both our boyfriends.”

She sighs. “I’m not. Can we talk?”

Martín looks at Helsinki who gives him a pleading look. “Fine.”

“I’ll take your coffee out for you,” Helsinki says, taking away Martín’s mug and walking outside with Bogota.

Martín crosses his arms and leans against the kitchen counter, gesturing for Nairobi to speak.

“I wanted to apologise,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“I told Helsinki I didn’t want him to make you apologise.”

“He didn’t,” Nairobi says, shaking her head. “I actually came to the conclusion that I acted like a bit of a dick myself.”

Martín snorts. “Really?”

She nods. “Really.” She takes a breath. “Look, Palermo, I’m not going to pretend to understand your relationship with Helsi. You made some really shitty choices in the bank and I know that you know you behaved like an asshole in the monastery.”

“You know as apologies go, this one really isn’t very good,” Martín says snarkily.

“See this is why people say you’re a dick,” Nairobi says, but she’s smiling. “What I’m trying to say is that clearly you’ve changed a lot in the last year and a half. It was wrong of me to treat you exactly the same yesterday as I did right after the heist. I know Helsi cares about you, and he’s assured me that you care about him. I guess I can almost believe that now.”

“Uh, thanks I guess,” Martín says. He hesitates before speaking again. “I do by the way – care about him that is. A lot. Not that it’s any of your business of course.”

“Of course,” she says with a grin.

Martín nods. “Okay can I go get my coffee now?”

Nairobi laughs. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Everyone else is already gathered around the table, looking various stages of awake and hungover. Helsinki has saved Martín a seat and immediately holds up his coffee for him, a worried look on his face.

“Life saver,” Martín says, giving him a brief kiss and immediately snatching the mug from his hands.

“Nice shirt,” Manila says, eyeing him when he finally manages to stop mainlining coffee.

Martín winks at her. “Thank you.”

“It’s a bold choice,” Lisbon says.

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not, but I’ll take it as a compliment,” Martín says. “I’m sure I’ve got another similar one, if Sergio wants to step up his game a little.”

Tokyo snorts into her toast at the thought and Sergio goes red.

“No thank you,” he says as Lisbon strokes the back of his head.

Breakfast – or more accurately lunch – goes much better than the dinner the night before and it sets the precedent for the next few days. He spends much of his time with Helsinki, but he also gets the chance to catch up with Bogota and Marseille, and even Sergio.

Lisbon’s daughter arrives and she’s just as fiery as her mother. Martín can’t blame Sergio for blanching when he realises how much of a liking Paula takes to Tokyo and Manila.

But Martín finds Paula amusing which is why Helsinki finds him helping her – and a moderately destructive Cincinnati – construct a huge sandcastle on their fifth day there.

“You’re good at that,” Helsinki tells Paula.

She nods. “I know, Palermo helped though. I’ve never made one this big before.”

Helsinki raises his eyebrows at Martín, who shrugs. “Hey, it’s not my fault you all forget I’m an engineer. This is just physics.”

“We’ve even got a moat!” Paula says, proudly gesturing at the knee-deep pit around the castle that she’s standing in.

“It looks great,” Helsinki says, looking overly fond.

Martín scowls to hide his blush, but he knows Helsinki sees it anyway.

“We need more shells,” Paula announces.

Martín laughs. “Is that so, princesa?”

“I think there are more in Cinci’s bucket,” she says, climbing out of her moat to go check. She looks in the bucket and sighs, sounding exactly like Lisbon. “No, there are just crabs in there.”

“Denver?” Martín calls to the other man, who is splashing Stockholm with water while she shrieks like a teenage girl. “Sort out your child, he’s imprisoning sea creatures again.”

Denver comes jogging over, Stockholm just behind him. He laughs when he looks in his son’s bucket and Stockholm sighs.

“Cinci, we’ve talked about this,” she says. “Come on, let’s go set them free.”

Denver picks Cincinnati up and Stockholm grabs the bucket and Martín watches the little family walk to the water to release the crabs.

“Boys,” Paula says, sounding very unimpressed. Helsinki snorts and Martín buries his face in his shoulder to try and hide his laughter. “They’re so stupid,” she adds.

Martín nods. “Yes, yes they are. Stay far away from them until you’re much older.”

Paula frowns at him, but shrugs off his comment. “I’m going to get more shells. Keep watch over our castle.”

“Of course. Helsi will help me,” Martín promises solemnly.

Paula nods and runs off down the beach. When she’s gone, Martín collapses sideways onto Helsinki’s lap.

“I’m so tired,” he groans. “I’m glad she’s not really a princess, she’d be a cruel and demanding ruler.”

Helsinki laughs and strokes his chest. “Тако си драматична, душо.”

Martín frowns. “I recognised some of that. Did you call me dramatic again?”

“Of course not,” Helsinki says as Martín pouts until he kisses him.

“Ew,” Paula says loudly, making them jump apart, Martín rolling away from Helsinki and nearly into the moat.

Martín clears his throat, sitting up. “Paula, you’re back.”

“Yes, I collected the best shells. Can you help me finish the castle, Palermo?”

“Of course, princesa.”

* * *

Tokyo breaks out the cards on their final evening.

“Poker anyone?” she asks.

“I’m in!” Nairobi agrees and Manila, Denver, Stockholm, Lisbon, Bogota, and Rio soon join.

“Palermo? Helsinki?” Stockholm queries.

Martín exchanges a look with Helsinki who rolls his eyes. Martín shrugs, lighting a cigarette. “Sure, why not?” he says as Helsinki declines.

“Wait, actually, I’m out,” Bogota says and Martín grins at him.

“Boring. Professor?” Tokyo asks and Sergio shakes his head.

“I don’t gamble,” he says and Martín wonders if he’s thinking about the time before the mint heist when he lost spectacularly at strip poker.

Manila grins. “What about you, Marseille?”

Marseille looks over at Martín and shakes his head. Martín winks at him and he sighs.

“Okay, let’s do this then,” Nairobi says as Tokyo shuffles and starts handing out cards.

Martín smirks as he’s handed his cards and Helsinki leans into him under the pretence of taking a drag from the cigarette in his card free hand.

“Don’t be too mean, љубљени,” Helsinki says as he exhales the smoke.

Martín offers him the cigarette again and when he declines, puts it between his own lips. “Please, this isn’t a casino, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Tokyo could kill you,” Helsinki says and Martín laughs outright.

Tokyo looks over at them. “Who am I killing and why?”

“Helsi was saying he thinks you might be lethal at cards,” Martín covers for them.

Tokyo grins. “Of course I am.”

“Hey,” Lisbon says. “Is everyone ready?” Everyone nods. “Good, now remember, Texas Hold ‘Em rules, and no outside help.”

Martín takes it easy in the first two rounds, folding the first time, losing half the grapes they’re using as chips to Lisbon in the second. It gives him an idea of how everyone else plays. Lisbon and Manila seem to be his biggest threats, but even then not much of one.

In the fourth round, he cleans out Denver who has to borrow some grapes from Stockholm to stay in.

Helsinki laughs at Nairobi’s indignant scowl when she loses half her fruit to Martín in round seven. By round nine, Lisbon is staring at him with narrowed eyes as both Rio and Tokyo drop out due to mistakenly going all in.

Manila throws down her cards in the eleventh round and brandishes her final grape at Martín. “Are you fucking psychic or something?” she yells and Martín laughs so hard he nearly slides off his chair.

“Is this why you three didn’t want to play?” Nairobi asks, turning to Bogota, Marseille, and Sergio who have been enjoying the vodka Denver and Stockholm brought with them.

“He’s a card-counter,” Bogota says with a hiccup and Sergio snorts, his glasses nearly slipping off his face.

Helsinki throws his arm around Martín to prevent him from actually falling as he continues to laugh.

“You bastard!” Tokyo yells, as Denver shouts “You couldn’t have warned us?” at Marseille.

“Technically, it’s not card counting,” Sergio says, his words slurring a little. “It’s actually calculating the probability of having a winning hand.”

“It’s harder than card counting,” Martín says and Tokyo pelts him with Nairobi's last five grapes.

Bogota sighs. “Do you know how many casinos he got us kicked out of?”

Martín shrugs. “It’s not my fault blackjack is easy.”

“I know how many casinos we’ve been kicked out of in Bangkok because he card-counts, not because blackjack's easy,” Helsinki tells Bogota.

“Only five!” Martín protests.

“Six,” Helsinki corrects.

Martín waves a hand dismissively. “It’s not illegal, they were just sore they lost so much money.”

Lisbon is staring at him, shaking her head. “Unbelievable.”

Martín steals the cigarette Helsinki had just lit for himself, throwing him a chastising look. “I’m sorry, was I or was I not introduced to you all as an engineer? Why are you surprised that I’m good at maths?”

“Because you’re an idiot usually,” Nairobi says, but there’s no edge to her words.

Helsinki laughs and Martín points his cigarette at her. “You’re on thin fucking ice, Nairobi,” he says, which just makes everyone laugh and Tokyo find more grapes to throw at him.

“Helsi, your boyfriend is an asshole,” Nairobi says and Martín feels Helsinki shrug next to him.

“I know, but I love him anyway.”

“Gross,” Manila announces. “Professor, pass me some of that vodka!”

They stumble to bed later, hastily stripping, and Helsinki presses him to the mattress with vodka-flavoured kisses.

Martín digs his fingernails into his tattooed shoulders, but eventually pulls away. “Nope, had too much to drink. There’s no way I’m getting anything up tonight.”

“Shh,” Helsinki says. “Let’s just sleep then.”

“Then get off me,” Martín sniggers as Helsinki makes an exaggerated snoring sound. “No, c’mon. I can’t breathe, Mirko.”

“Breathing’s overrated,” Helsinki says, but rolls them so Martín’s lying on top of him, making his head spin.

Martín pushes his face into Helsinki’s neck and enjoys the feeling of him rhythmically stroking the bare skin on his back.

“Are you glad?” Helsinki asks when Martín’s nearly asleep.

“Hmm?” he mumbles against Helsinki’s skin, making him shiver.

Helsinki strokes his hand all the way from the base of Martín’s spine up to his neck and back again. “Are you glad you came with me?”

“Yes,” Martín admits reluctantly. “But that doesn’t mean you’re right.”

He feels the vibrations of Helsinki’s laughter in his own chest. “Of course not, душо,"

“Sleep now, mi amor,” Martín orders and promptly falls asleep before Helsinki can answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will be up.... soon? i'm now working on another helermo fic simultaneously lol  
> also i have twitter now so follow me i guess? ([@angstypalermo](https://twitter.com/angstypalermo))
> 
> Serbian translations (and thank you to the commenter who told me the Serbian was good so far!!!)  
> душо - honey  
> срце - heart  
> љубљени - beloved  
> Тако си драматична, душо - You're so dramatic, sweetheart


	5. Chapter 5

The first night back in their flat is heaven. They arrive late, not stumbling through the door until well past midnight, but Martín is just grateful to be home.

He dumps his bag next to the sofa and kicks off his shoes, yawning widely.

“Ordinarily I’d say let’s rechristen every surface in here,” Martín says, cutting himself off with another yawn.

“But you’re too tired and want to sleep for eighteen hours,” Helsinki finishes for him and he nods. Helsinki finishes taking off his own shoes and holds out a hand which Martín takes. “Then let’s go.”

Martín follows him into the bedroom and doesn’t even bother putting on pyjamas. He just strips and crawls into bed, disappearing under the covers. Helsinki joins him moments later, immediately pulling Martín into his arms.

“You’re a genius,” Helsinki mumbles into his hair as Martín pulls the blankets up over their shoulders.

“I know,” Martín tells him, hiding his smile in Helsinki’s neck. “But why?”

“Fresh sheets.”

“Oh.”

Martín had convinced Helsinki to help him change their bed linen before they left for the reunion, telling him he’d enjoy not having a musty bed when they returned.

Martín yawns again and Helsinki let’s go of him for about thirty seconds to turn off the bedside lamp, before wrapping himself around him again.

“Thank you for coming to the reunion with me, Martín,” he says quietly.

Martín shifts just enough to be able to kiss him softly and then returns to his spot against Helsinki’s chest.

“It’s okay, I sort of enjoyed it in the end.”

“I’m glad.”

“I know. I love you, Mirko,” Martín tells him, but he’s asleep before he hears Helsinki’s reply.

-

He wakes to the smell of coffee and he swears that if he were the marrying type he’d propose to Helsinki right then and there. He cracks an eyelid to see Helsinki sitting beside him, mug of coffee in one hand, iPad in the other.

“Hmph,” he says, rolling over and negotiating his way into Helsinki’s lap, so his head is resting on his thighs and Helsinki is forced to put down his tablet.

“Good morning to you too,” he says, one hand cupping Martín’s face. “Did you sleep well.”

Martín nods. “Yeah, I did actually. What time is it?”

“Nearly three, you slept for more than twelve hours,” Helsinki tells him fondly, hand sliding down to rest comfortably on Martín’s throat.

“Have you been awake long?”

“No, not really.”

“You miss them already, huh?” Martín asks.

Helsinki sighs. “They’re our family.”

“I know they are cariño, and we’ll see them again soon.”

Helsinki smiles at him, thumb stroking the side of his neck and shifts a little, repositioning his mug. Martín yawns again, turning to press his face into Helsinki’s stomach.

“Are you comfortable there?” the other man teases.

Martín nods against him. “Mhm very. You’re not allowed to move.”

“Not even to get you a coffee?”

“We can just share yours.”

“And food?”

“Not hungry.”

“I should shower.”

Martín considers that one. “You’ll just have to take me with you.”

“Not really a bad thing, is it?” Helsinki asks.

“No,” Martín says with a grin. “Not unless we get more noise complaints from the neighbours.”

* * *

Helsinki is dozing on the sofa when Martín gets home. His arm stings a little, this hurt a lot more than when he had the lyrics done. He supposes it’s maybe because he’s sober this time and also this tattoo is bigger, needed shading and extra line work.

He kicks his shoes off and climbs over the back of the sofa, landing inelegantly on top of Helsinki who wakes with a start.

“мали кретену!” he says when he jolts awake and sees Martín.

Martín leans forward to kiss him in apology. “I’m sorry mi amor, did I hurt you?”

Helsinki shakes his head. “No, just scared me.”

“Sorry,” Martín says again, kissing him softly. “I didn’t think I’d land that hard.”

Helsinki smiles, hands settling on his hips. “Well, since you’re here…” he trails off, hands tightening on Martín.

Martín grins. “Yes, I like the way you think, querido, but I have something to show you first.”

Helsinki frowns, confused. Martín leans back and strips off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor.

“What happened?” Helsinki asks, voice suddenly concerned as he looks at the bandage wrapped around Martín’s arm.

“Nothing bad, don’t worry,” Martín reassures him. “You can take the bandage off.”

Helsinki does as he’s told, slowly unwinding the bandage. The tattoo is still covered by plastic wrap, Martín had just added the bandage so Helsinki would get a proper reveal.

Helsinki runs his fingers carefully over the plastic covered surface. “I can’t see it clearly, what is it?”

“You can take the plastic off too,” Martín says. “Since I’m not wearing anything that can stain.”

Helsinki gently peels away the plastic and Martín grimaces a little at the feeling.

“It’s really beautiful,” Helsinki says sincerely. “But you should have told me, I could have come with you.”

“I know,” Martín tells him, stroking the back of his neck. “I just wanted to do this one on my own.”

“I understand,” Helsinki says.

“I knew you would.”

“What does it mean?”

Martín stretches his arm out, giving Helsinki a good look at the feather inked onto his arm. “Hope. And grief. And freedom,” he says. “Everything we have together.”

Helsinki pulls him into a lingering kiss, biting at his lip just the way Martín likes it and making him groan. Before he can go any further and make things more interesting, Helsinki pulls away.

“No, go wash and wrap your arm first,” he says and Martín definitely doesn’t whine.

He grinds his hips against Helsinki’s. “You sure you want me to leave?”

“No, but I also don’t want that to get infected. I’ll be waiting right here.”

Martín sighs dramatically, but climbs off Helsinki. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Lucky I love you more like,” Helsinki calls after him as he disappears into the bathroom and Martín laughs.

* * *

“Oh my god, you aren’t serious?” Helsinki asks as Martín gets to his feet, only swaying a little.

Martín grins and downs the rest of his drink. “I’m dead serious.”

Helsinki buries his face in his hands. “Please don’t душо.”

“I have no choice,” Martín says earnestly. “They’ve already called my name.”

“Let’s just leave now,” Helsinki begs.

“Nope.”

“Please.”

“I’m sorry, but this is happening,” Martín says. Then he drags Helsinki into a kiss that makes the people at the table next to them scowl.

He grins at Helsinki’s stupefied expression and darts off towards the stage. The karaoke operator hands him a microphone and points at the screen with the lyrics rolling across it.

“Pfft, I don’t need the lyrics,” Martín says and the karaoke guy gives him a very, very unimpressed look.

The music starts and Martín finds Helsinki in the crowd. He can just about make him out and he points straight at him, raising the microphone to his lips. “This one’s for you, baby,” he announces in English and there are drunken cheers from the crowd.

He can see Helsinki pressing his face to the table and grins as he starts to sing.

“ _You are my fire_

_The one desire_

_Believe when I say_

_I want it that way_ ”

-

There’s applause when he finished and he goes and collects more drinks from the bar before he returns to Helsinki. He just drops down onto the other man’s lap, trusting he’ll catch him. Helsinki thankfully does catch him, arms wrapping securely around Martín’s waist so he doesn’t slide right off again. Martín spills beer over both of them but manages to keep most of his cocktail in its glass before he puts the drinks on the table.

“Did you like my song?” he asks and Helsinki sighs.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says and Martín raises his eyebrows.

“Really?”

“And dramatic.”

“You think so?”

“And very, very hot.”

“Mhmm, well I have to agree with that one,” Martín purrs, pressing closer to Helsinki.

Helsinki rubs his face against his neck. “I thought you would.”

“Are you going to sing for me?” Martín teases.

“You know I can’t sing, љубљени,” Helsinki sighs, mouth moving against his skin in a way that means they’re going to have to leave the bar very soon or risk getting kicked out for public indecency again.

“But if you could, what song would you pick?”

Helsinki shrugs, pulling away from Martín’s neck. “I don’t know. Something old, maybe.”

“Like Frank Sinatra?”

“Sure.”

Martín sniffs. “You’d sing me Frank Sinatra?” he asks, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.

“How drunk are you?” Helsinki asks, an amused smile on his face.

“Not at all, mi amor,” Martín says, concentrating on articulating the words properly.

Helsinki doesn’t look convinced. “Then why are you crying?”

“I’m not,” Martín says, fingers curling in Helsinki’s shirt.

“You’re literally crying right now, душо.” Helsinki ignores the way Martín is pawing at his chest and wipes the wetness off his face.

“M’just happy, okay?” Martín mumbles and Helsinki’s arms wrap around him once again.

“As long as you’re sure that’s all it is,” Helsinki says and Martín laughs wetly.

“I’m sure.”

Helsinki smiles and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Good, do you want to go home then?”

Martín pretends to think about it. “Can we make out in the taxi?”

Helsinki hesitates and then sighs. “Yeah, okay.”

* * *

It’s been raining all day and Martín is sick of it. The one time he went out onto the balcony to try and sneak a cigarette, he got drenched in seconds.

He and Helsinki had officially called it a sofa day and spent most of the afternoon watching a show Helsi insisted he’d like. It was about queer people making over Americans and even if he was held at gunpoint he would never admit to someone other than Helsinki that it made him shed a few tears.

Around six they realised they had nothing that could be deemed edible in the kitchen and so Helsinki had gone out to get them food from the restaurant down the street. Except he should have been back twenty minutes ago and Martín is getting antsy.

His mind can’t help but start imagining every single terrible scenario that could have befallen Helsinki – everything from being hit by a car to having been captured by the police to simply having decided not to come back to Martín.

Half an hour after Helsinki is supposed to be back, there’s the sound of a key in the lock and Helsinki walks in, soaking wet and dripping rainwater onto the hall carpet.

“Are you okay?” Martín asks, hurrying over to him and relieving him of the bags of food.

Helsinki nods. “Yeah, sorry I’m so late. I just… ran into a little problem.”

Martín frowns. “What sort of problem?”

Helsinki opens his mouth to reply and instead something meows. Martín raises an eyebrow and Helsinki smiles guiltily. Martín darts forward and unzips the top of Helsinki’s jacket and a tiny, grey kitten pokes its head out.

“Martín, meet the little problem,” Helsinki says and Martín sighs.

“Really, cariño? A cat?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest.

Helsinki pulls the bedraggled kitten out of his coat, cradling it in both hands and holds it out towards Martín. It’s shivering pathetically and keeps letting out tiny, high-pitched mews.

“Please?” Helsinki asks and suddenly Martín can’t come up with a single reason to deny him anything, especially not something so cute. He’s gone soft

He groans. “If it shits anywhere that’s not the toilet, you’re cleaning it up.”

“I love you,” Helsinki says with a wide smile and then looks down at the kitten. “What do you think we should name him?”

Martín frowns. “It’s a he?”

Helsinki nods. “Yeah.”

“Well I suppose that’s good, I wouldn’t have wanted a girl in the apartment.”

Helsinki snorts, startling the kitten he’s now clutching to his chest.

“Maybe we should do another city name?” Martín suggests.

“Yes, I like that. What about London?”

“London is good… but why? Do you have a particular reason?”

Helsinki shrugs. “It’s grey and wet just like him.”

Martín laughs. “Good choice. Now can you put the cat down so we can eat?”

-

Helsinki does not put the cat down for approximately the next forty-eight hours. Martín assumes that’s why London develops the habit of climbing up their legs to sit on their shoulders. It’s clear he vastly prefers Helsinki, but settles for Martín when he has to, needle sharp claws tearing holes in his shirts.

Martín grumbles a lot about the cat, but he has to admit that at night, when he and Helsinki are curled around each other, it’s cute to watch London scamper across the bed and squeeze between them, purring as loudly as something so tiny can.

It’s more of a family than Martín ever hoped to deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was just a little tiny chapter to finish off this story. Thank you so much to everyone who read/liked/commented on this... i hope you liked it and i will definitely be writing more helermo in future!
> 
> Serbian:  
> мали кретену - you little asshole  
> душо - honey  
> љубљени - beloved

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts, comments, and kudos appreciated!  
> come and yell at me here, on tumblr ([@hefellfordean](https://hefellfordean.tumblr.com)), or twitter ([@angstypalermo](https://twitter.com/angstypalermo))


End file.
